


Lies in Silence

by Slwmtiondaylite



Category: Star Trek (2009)
Genre: Alternate Mirror Universe, Alternate Universe, Angst, Attempted Rape, Dubious Consent, Execution, Explicit Language, F/M, Forced Prostitution, Forced Relationship, Minor F/F, Mirror Universe, POV First Person, Rape/Non-con References, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-22
Updated: 2011-12-22
Packaged: 2017-10-27 18:26:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 30
Words: 107,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/298726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Slwmtiondaylite/pseuds/Slwmtiondaylite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He wants to protect me; I want that protection, need it, in fact. But I am willing to betray him if and when the time comes. We are not working together. I know my goals. But what are his?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Deafening Silence of a Secret

**Author's Note:**

> This is NOT a happy story. Please heed ALL warnings, listed in the tags.
> 
> When I first started planning this story, it was supposed to be a relatively short story for the Uhura Is Awesome Fest recently held at the LJ comm, where_no_woman. But it grew and grew and, needless to say, I wasn’t able to finish it on time. But I wanted to finish it. So I kept writing, and am still writing.
> 
> It’s a bit of an experiment on my part. It’s written in a way that I’ve never tried before. I’ve found it to be a fun interesting challenge.
> 
> The prompt I had chosen for the Uhura Fest was: Shakespeare in Love-style AU in which Starfleet is only for boys. Uhura pulls a Gwyneth Paltrow and dresses like a man to fulfill her dreams. Spock is her commanding officer and sexual tension ensues.
> 
> That was my starting point. And as I started writing, the only scenario I could imagine where this could happen was the Mirror!verse. I couldn’t see how I could logically fit it into the normal universe, so I went into the Mirror!verse. And this, of course, allows me to go dark with the subject matter. And I do. I’ll say right now that I don’t think this story will be for everyone. Please heed the warnings I placed at the very beginning of the story.
> 
> I combine the original prompt with the ideas of a novel I am currently reading: Margaret Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale. Oh, and the film/novella, Lust, Caution ended up playing a part in my planning as well. So, mixing the original prompt with the film and novel, I was left with a rather dark and disturbing tale. But it’s one that refuses to leave me alone.

The blaring alarm rudely tears me from my slumber and I reach out blindly, slapping the offensive thing. It quiets. I open my bleary eyes, huddling under the sheets and clutching them with clenched fists to my form. I look across the dark room at the other bed. I am in a darkened dorm room built for two occupants. A bland, typical dorm room, there is nothing unique or significant about it. It's rather depressing, actually.

A loud grumble and my roommate rolls over, throwing off the covers.

I hesitate, alarmed.

No further movement or sound comes from across the room, so I breathe a sigh of relief.

I don't want to wake my roommate. I don't want to see or talk to my roommate and I definitely don't want **him** to see or talk to me.

I sit up quickly, pulling the covers up to my neck and peer over at my dorm mate again. I cringe slightly, my eyes rolling, at the nude body that was revealed.

Jim Kirk is a man of little modesty.

Keeping the sheets wrapped tightly around my body, I make a quick and quiet dash for the bathroom, halting only to grab the duffle bag in which I keep my belongings.

I don't spare another look at Kirk.

Closing the door and locking it securely behind me, I turn on the lights and look at myself in the mirror.

My face is drawn and ashen. Dark circles are visible under my baggy eyes. My once full and beautiful hair—I took great pride in my smooth silky hair—hangs limply across my shoulders.

Once again, I tell myself that I shouldn't be here. This place is going to kill me. One way or the other.

But I requested this mission. I took it up, fully understanding the time, the difficulty, the danger involved. A liberated Starfleet, a free Empire. It was too much to resist.

I close my eyes. And the stars above. I always wanted to go to them, to live a life among them. I know of no other way to accomplish this. Perhaps, when I am successful— **if** , I chide myself, it's time to be realistic—then I can live my life among them without the deception, the lies.

So I stay. No matter how exhausted I am, no matter how stressed, frightened even. I stay.

And I shall continue to stay, to keep up the charade...and I will do my duty, and I will be one of those elite Starfleet officers amongst the stars. And no one will know.

Or...until I get caught.

My eyes squeeze closed at that thought and a small trickle of fear courses through me. What **would** become of me if I get caught? Would it be the agony booth? Imprisonment?

Death?

Tears immediately burn in my eyes and I swipe at them angrily.

No matter, what, if I am caught, I am on my own. They will not bail me out, they will not save me. It would be too risky and they cannot bring that unnecessary risk to the organization when they are so close to success.

No, I won't cry. I can't.

This is what I want. This is what I asked for.

This dream. This idea. This mission. A Starfleet...an Empire that is free was why I left my home in Africa and became Benjamin Uhura, son of Abasi and M'Umbha Uhura. Fictional parents for a fictional man. Because Nyota Uhura was not allowed.

She is forbidden. Barred.

Because **she** is a woman.

 **I** am a woman.

A small sound outside the bathroom startles me from my reverie and I feel my heart leap into my throat. Freezing, my eyes drift to the closed door and I listen intently.

There is no other sound.

Kirk will not be waking up for another two hours or so. He never wakes earlier than absolutely necessary. He is certainly a creature of habit. This works in my favor. This means I can plan. I can arrange.

But this doesn't mean I can afford to dawdle. Looking at my exhausted face one more time—and I am exhausted; I am always in bed after my roommate and awake before him, always—I sigh sadly then turn to the shower. I quickly shed my clothing. My heavy flannel pajamas that I wear no matter the weather, no matter how hot I get, because they shield me. I don't allow myself too long in the shower, don't allow myself to revel in the feel of the hot water cascading down my body, soothing my tired muscles, my frayed nerves, warming me.

I have no time for it.

After five painfully short minutes, I shut the water off and step out of the stall. I quickly dry myself off and then stand nude before the mirror.

I cringe at the bruises marring my flesh. They all are various states of healing. And all are the result of the brutal physical training Starfleet cadets are ordered to endure every day. Starfleet is brutal. It is about power. It is about conquest. It is about Empire. As it has been for centuries. And that brutality, that desire for glory results in the intense training. Starfleet did not obtain its ominous reputation by sitting idly by.

I reach for the duffle bag, setting it on the bathroom counter, and unzip it slowly. The first thing I pull out was a long strip of linen. It is crude, archaic even, but it works and it is absolutely necessary that I hide my breasts from observation. When I first began this, I had difficulty wrapping the strip around my body tightly enough to conceal my chest and it would take several attempts to get it right, but it was a skill I have perfected during my time here. And I can do it quickly, efficiently.

After it is securely wrapped around me, I finish dressing in the blood red cadet uniform. It's not the most attractive outfit on my petite frame—the golden sash hangs limply across my waist; the limbs are far too baggy—but I can't do anything about it. And I don't want to. The horrible cut of the uniform actually serves to further hide my feminine body.

Digging around in my duffle, I quickly finish getting ready.

When I am done, I slowly, quietly open the bathroom door and peer out. Kirk is still asleep on his bed. I move quickly to my desk and gather my PADDs and anything else I think I might need for the day and toss them in a small knapsack.

Moving to the door, I exit the dorm room quietly, peering around me, seeing if anyone is paying her any attention. I have to be cautious. Vigilant.

Luckily, it is still relatively early and most cadets are still sleeping. And those who are awake ignore me. I make sure of that, keeping to myself, barely speaking unless spoken to.

That is what I need. That is what I want.

And while, at times, I am lonely and sometimes contemplate just leaving, abandoning my mission, defecting, I can't. I can't run away from this. I have come too far, invested so much into this goal...this deception that I just can't give up.

Failure is not an option.

I secure the lock to the dorm, once again wishing that I had been allowed to have a single this year, and run a free hand across my forehead, pushing the short bangs of my tight-fitting wig—I had not been able to bring myself to shear my hair for this, even if it would be safer—and ensure that it is firmly in place.

I walk down the corridor, towards the exit, keeping my eyes down. I don't let myself make eye contact with anyone.

I can't let anyone discover my secret.

I sigh quietly and exit into the early morning sun just peeping above the horizon, low in the Californian sky. I walk down the sidewalk to the small courtyard. I don't acknowledge my fellow cadets. And they don't acknowledge me.

I have no class today, except for my daily physical training. But even if that wasn't so, I never allow myself to stay in the dorm, where Kirk is. His deplorable behavior unsettles me and I fear what he might do if he ever discovers my secret, Benjamin's secret. He is unhinged.

I head to what I think of as my safe haven. The xenolinguistics department.

In a world so concerned about the conquering of other planets, other races, Starfleet and the Empire are less concerned about what they consider to be more peripheral branches of study. As a result, the xenolinguistics department is small, tucked away in the shadows of the much larger departments, the departments the Board decides are essential to conquest and power.

It is quiet when I arrive, as it generally is. There are only a handful of students that are even remotely interested in the languages of those the Empire conquered. Most of Starfleet's cadets aspire to the tactical divisions, eager to face the aliens, to fight them.

But I...I love language. I love the excitement I feel whenever I hear a new tongue I have never heard before, when I successfully translate an ancient volume of text.

Language is my love. My life. And it aids me tremendously here.

It's just a shame that Starfleet doesn't appear to see the importance of it. The facilities in which the xenolinguistics department is hosted leave much to be desired. They are horribly outdated as they have yet to receive the same care and attention as the rest of the campus.

But it also serves as an advantage. A lack of interest in the building means that I am usually left alone when I am here. Except for the occasional professor or student, the place is practically abandoned.

I enter the small computer lab tucked away in the basement of the building. It contains only six terminals and two round tables.

I seat myself in one of the empty cubicles and one of the few that has a working terminal. I glance around me, looking at the several 'out of order' signs on several of the other terminals. I sigh sadly. The department is in desperate need of attention from the higher-ups, but I doubt it will ever receive it.

Satisfied that I am safe from prying eyes, I place my knapsack on the table and pull out one of my PADDs. I turn it on and shift through the files stored on it. I decide to use the time before my physical training class to continue work on my translation assignments. The process of translating clauses, declining nouns, and conjugating verbs calms me. Takes me out of the reality of my situation, albeit a situation I have willingly entered, if only for a short time.

The quiet lab—I am, unsurprisingly, the only cadet here—allows me to focus my mind on my studies. On the translations.

I have grown accustomed to the silence of the small lab, revel in it. The silence has become my life. And in this silence, I work.

The silence is shattered suddenly when my personal communicator chirps loudly. I gasp and reach for it quickly. It is a message. To meet. I reply quickly, stating that I will be available after my training, and return it to my bag.

My focus ruined, I try, in vain, to return to my studies. I sigh, running a hand across my face.

The door slide open with a clunky sound and someone walks in, footsteps controlled against the hard floor.

I jerk my head up to see who it is.

Commander Spock.

My eyes widen.

He stands still, hands clasped behind his back, and observes the room for a moment. His eyes scan the bare room before finally landing on me. He gives me a small tilt of the head. "Cadet."

"Sir." I immediately drop my eyes. My cheeks flush slightly just at the mere sight of him. It is a reaction I try desperately to control. It's embarrassing. It is potentially fatal to my mission here. It is behavior that is wholly unprofessional, unwanted and unbecoming.

The commander, for his part, does not do much to acknowledge me, apart from the polite greetings exchanged when we cross paths, like just now. That's not to say he completely ignores me. Far from that. He merely doesn't give me more attention than he does any of his other students. That would be illogical, after all. It would be favoritism. And Vulcans cannot be biased due to their very nature.

Though, sometimes, I wonder if I catch a look of derision when he looks at me, at the other cadets and professors. Like he doesn't like this place, like he doesn't like anyone here. But it's always gone in an instant and I'm always left wondering if I really did see it. Maybe, maybe not. I couldn't say.

I will myself to remain focused on my translations. I hear him cross the room and settle himself in the other open terminal.

I hear a small sigh.

"Cadet, do you know how long these terminals have been out of commission?"

I look up, meeting his eyes briefly before scanning the broken terminals. "As far as I know, sir, they've always been this way." And it's true.

He shakes his head slightly. "That is highly illogical." He seems to be speaking mostly to himself, so I remain silent. "The students' learning is highly impaired when the necessary equipment is malfunctioning. I shall discuss this gross neglect to the Academic Board."

I agree, though I do not speak. I, instead, attempt to return to my translations. But it is difficult with my heart beating furiously against the walls of my chest. Anxiety races through me. I can't tell if it is because of my ever-existing fear that my secret will be discovered, or if it is because of him and his proximity to me.

He does not stay long, for which I am thankful. After his brief declaration of reporting the state of the lab to the Board, he fell silent and continued to work on whatever it was that had drawn him to the lab that he so infrequently visits.

I am curious about his visit to the xenolinguistics lab, but did not voice it. I will not dare ask such a question to a commanding officer. But, still, my interest is piqued. It is only natural, I decide.

And it will remain that way and unsatisfied. It is not my business.

I watch him from the corner of my eye while he signs out and stood. With a stoic look, he wishes me farewell and leaves the room, leaving me alone again.

Alone with my thoughts. My secrets.

I sigh sadly.

I glance up at the, thankfully, working clock on the far wall. It is 1500 hours. My eyes widen and I jump to my feet, reaching down to sign out of my terminal.

I have to hurry across the campus if I want to make it to physical training in time. And I want to. The consequences for tardiness are severe and something I do not want to experience.

* * *

This is a crummy place. Disgusting. It's filled with men who give me plenty of catcalls when I enter. It's filled with men fucking women. This is unsurprising and expected when one visits a whorehouse. It's the exact sort of place I expect to visit to find my comrade, my contact. It's the only place we are truly allowed to be without question.

"Have you found anything yet?"

I slide into the chair opposite my contact, Gaila. I sigh, running a hand through my freed hair. After my training, I snuck back to the basement of the xenolinguistics building and changed. It was risky, it was stupid. But I have to protect my secret identity when I go off campus in case I happen upon any classmates. So, I become Nyota again, donning my feminine attire—tonight it's a red knee length dress and red heels—and and freeing my hair from its confines underneath that god-awful wig I endure. I look at my green-skinned companion in disbelief. "Hello, Gaila. How are you? I'm fine by the way."

Gaila tilts her head, sighing. "Sorry. I forget about the human penchant for small talk. How are you? Good? Me, too. Great, now that's out of the way. Did you find anything yet?"

I sigh, placing my elbows on the table that separates us, resting my face in my hands. "No. I can't get into the systems yet. I'm not high enough; I'm still just a cadet, you know."

"Well, can't you just hack into the system?"

"I'm a xenolinguist, Gaila, not a computer programmer. I can barely turn my computer on, much less hack into the most secure system in the known universe."

Gaila sighs and I realize she's irritated. "That's why they should have sent me. I'd have something by now."

I roll my eyes. I can't blame her for being impatient, for being irritated. I am, too. I don't like waiting anymore than she does. But I must. I must wait. "And women aren't allowed in Starfleet. Your pheromones would have given you away."

Gaila shrugs slightly and her words are tinted with anger. "Maybe. But we'll never know, will we?"

I cross my arms. This was another point of contention she always has with me when we meet. If it isn't that I am too slow, it's that **I** was chosen for this assignment. She wanted to be the one who went in. She wanted to be the one who spied on Starfleet, who succeeded in obtaining the information. She is still bitter, still angry that Robau chose me. "And you're green, in case you haven't noticed. And Starfleet doesn't look too kindly at those who aren't human. It would have been too risky for you."

"Yeah, well, we'll never know." Gaila sighs and looks around the small restaurant. It is empty, except for the employees. She leans in close. "Robau is getting antsy, Ny. He's going to want some sort of information from you and soon. I mean, really, how long does it take?"

I sigh angrily. "I **know** , Gaila. I'm **trying** , but it's not easy. Trying to be the best in my class, keeping to myself –"

"Maybe that's just it. Maybe you shouldn't keep to yourself. Maybe you need to get close to someone?"

"Close to who? In case you haven't noticed, I'm not exactly a man. If I get close to someone..."

Gaila gives me a small smile. "I didn't mean **that** , silly."

I think she does. We're women, after all. That's what's expected of us. But I don't voice that.

She leans back in her chair. "Honestly, girl. I just mean...maybe you should try to make friends, become familiar with some of the professors."

I gesture helplessly. "I...I don't know, Gaila. I can try. But I can't promise anything." And I can't. There are too many variables, too many...too much of everything that I can't promise when I can deliver. **If** I can deliver.

What will happen to me if I can't give Robau what he wants?

The moon has long since risen in the sky.

After I bid farewell to my Orion friend, I quickly return to the campus, my red skirt fluttering in the light night breeze. My eyes constantly scanning the grounds of the Academy, I make my way to the xenolinguistics building. I have been entrusted with the code for the door at the beginning of my second year and I have never been more grateful. I key it in and the door slides open. I enter and make my way downstairs to the basement.

I enter the empty lab, leaving the ceiling lights off. Instead, I power the small desk lamp that belonged to the Andorian professor. It bathes the room in just enough light without being overwhelming.

I move behind the desk and pull the chair out. I remove my heels and stand on the desk. Carefully, I reach up and push aside one of the ceiling tiles. I grope around the ceiling, reaching for my bag.

Grabbing it, I jump off the desk and place the bag on the surface. The sound of the zipper is harsh in the silence when I unzip it. Quickly, I pull the short red dress over her head and stand nearly naked, save for my panties, in the cold room. I stuff the dress in the bag, along with my shoes.

Digging around in the bag, I remove my cadet uniform and the ghastly wig. Deftly, I don the wig quickly and effortlessly. Then I grab the pants and pull them on quickly.

I grab the linen cloth and proceed to wrap myself in it.

"Cadet Uhura?"

I gasp, my heart pounding.

It is Commander Spock.


	2. The Coercion of the Flesh

"Cadet Uhura?" Spock repeats.

His voice contains no inflection, no indication of any reaction to my half nude presence in the empty lab.

But –

My heart still stops in my chest and the plummeting feeling causes my stomach to seize.

It is Spock. Commander Spock.

I don't turn to face him, governed by my irrational fear—maybe it's not irrational. How can I know—but I can hear his approach. I can hear him. I am not prepared for this. I am not supposed to get caught now. Not ever.

His soft steps move closer and closer. The harsh fabric of his uniform rustles with his movements.

My breath comes in sharp gasps; my heart pounds in my chest. This is it. I am discovered. I will be turned in. Of course, he will turn me in. It is only logical to turn in the rule-breakers. It is illogical to lie to the Board, to keep my secret. He has no logical reason to do so.

I almost made it.

I feel the burn of tears, but hold them back, swallowing harshly. I will **not** cry.

I feel the light floating touch of his hand across my shoulder and I gasp. I did not expect him to stroke my flesh; physical contact was typically avoided by Vulcans at all costs. I suspect he is about to turn me around to face him. But his hand only gently caresses my shoulder, skimming down my arm. Goose bumps appear on my flesh. I shiver.

I don't turn around. My eyes slide closed with his surprisingly gentle touch. It has been so long since anyone has touched me this way. I have been Ben for so long, been here for so long. I have almost forgotten a touch given to arouse, to explore, a touch not given in battle to wound or destroy.

He steps closer.

I can feel his heat behind me, permeating my skin. I want to lean into him, let his heat encompass me and warm me. But I don't.

His hand moves to my waist, pulling me slightly closer. I gasp, my eyes opening.

He finds the end of my linen encasement and pulls it, unwrapping it and exposing me.

My eyes fall closed once more. And my breathing grows swifter, in rhythm with my galloping heart. What is he doing? I have always thought him attractive, but I have never expected him to behave like this towards me.

The linen cloth falls to the floor. The cool air of the lab hits my skin, my nipples tighten, and I breathe in a sharp intake of air. I am completely bare to him from the waist up. I should be fearful.

I am.

I am not.

He does not speak. He runs his hands across my waist, my back, my stomach, my chest. His touch lingers in some places—my breasts, my stomach—and skirt across my soft dark flesh in others.

I feel a tingling sensation settling deep within me. It is not from fear.

His hand skims from my torso to my neck and to the wig. Gently, he removes it and the barrettes I used to secure my own hair, throwing them behind him—I heard the barrettes scatter across the floor—and allows my hair to cascade down my shoulders, my back. His hand massages my skull, caresses the nape of my neck, sending slight shivers throughout my body, goose bumps on my skin.

My eyes remain closed and I lean into his touch. I moan involuntarily. Is he going to say anything?

He pulls me even closer, wrapping a hand around my delicate waist. His other hand tangles itself in my hair, pulling my head to the side. He breathes deeply into my neck. "I had suspected as much." He speaks quietly, his breath tickling my ears.

My breath comes in harsh gasps, but I remain still and silent.

"You might have been able to trick the majority of the Academy, Cadet Uhura, as humans are exceedingly unobservant, but you did not deceive me. I knew the moment I saw you. I knew of your treachery."

My eyes open and I sob once before catching myself. It is a loud gut wrenching sound, a sound I have not made in years. I will myself not to cry in front of him. He is a Vulcan. It will not affect him. I am still worried, concerned about what he would do with my secret. I don't know if I can trust him. Can I trust anyone here?

His fingers reach up, cup my breasts, and his thumbs and forefingers tweak my nipples, pinching and teasing the nubbins until they become painfully erect.

I gasp, arching my back and pressing my breasts further into his hands. "Please."

I do not know if I am begging him to stop or continue. I do not know when I have become the begging kind. I do not know if I care.

"Please." He repeats my softly-spoken word with a calm voice that belies the intensity. "Tell me what I should do. Should I alert the authorities? You have broken the law. Women are not allowed in Starfleet." As he speaks, he resumes caressing my skin, playing with my hair.

I swallow loudly. "Please, don't."

"Don't what?" He pulls me flush against his chest, fingers digging deeply into my hips. I whimper at his grasp.

I can feel the heat emanating from him. Wildly, I think about Gaila's words. _Get close to someone_. Can I do it? Would I be able to do it with him? A Vulcan? He is certainly attractive enough physically that I am sure that wouldn't be the problem. But, what will he do if I try it? I have my doubts that he would fight it; he has already touched me intimately. He wants me. But why? "Please, don't tell them."

He spins me around to face him.

I try to bring my hands up to my chest, to hide my breasts from his view—I don't know why; he's already touched them, teased them—but he releases my waist and grabs my wrists and holds my arms firmly by my sides.

He wants me exposed.

I look at him, meeting his gaze. I press my chest against his, raising myself on my tip toes, my breath caressing his neck. My eyes drop to his mouth, his bow-shaped lips. What will he do if I kiss him? I lick my lips. "What are you going to do?"

Spock brings a hand to my face, cupping my cheek briefly, and my eyes flutter closed. He gently swipes the moisture from my lips with his thumb. I open my lips and catch his thumb in my teeth, sucking. I don't know why I did this. This isn't me.

Is it?

He gasps, pulling my body closer to his. I wonder just how much closer we can get.

I release his thumb with a quiet pop. I am surprised at my own audacity. I have never been one to be so overtly sexual in my life. I've dealt with the unwanted sex far too many times to ask for it, so why am I behaving this way now?

A hand skirts across the underside of my breasts.

I gasp and my eyes open. I look at him and meet his eyes through the haze of my steadily growing arousal. I am startled by the intensity in his gaze, how human his eyes seemed.

He keeps his eyes level with mine, not dropping them. He leans into me. To do what? To kiss me?

I shiver. From the anxiety, the cold, I do not know.

Spock notices and takes a small step back, his eyes moving from my eyes and down my body.

I still struggle not to cover myself. I still feel slightly embarrassed to be so exposed before him—and I still don't—while he stands before me fully clothed in his blue Imperial Starfleet uniform, wearing it proudly. I have never done this before.

But I have done this before, I remind myself.

He glances behind me, catching a glimpse of my red heels, my dress peeping out of my unzipped bag. "Where did you go?" His words are a whisper.

I shake my head. I don't want to tell him. I don't know what he'll do to me if I do. "What? I didn't go anywhere." I lie. I have to. My entire time here has been a lie. It's become easy for me. It has become easy for me to lie.

He returns my gaze sharply. "It is illogical to deny it."

I drop my eyes. But he doesn't buy it; I didn't really expect him to. He's a Vulcan, far too observant.

He brings his hands to my waist and runs them up my sides, applying slight pressure. He reaches just below my breasts.

I gasp.

He tightens his hold on me, causing me to wince slightly. He pulls me closer forcefully, unheeding to my small gasp of surprise. "Where did you go?" His voice is lower, harsher. Aroused.

I remain silent. I stand before my former professor, my breasts exposed, my secret exposed, contemplating my continual espionage, using him for my own means. And instead of fighting his touch, I am responding to it. My cheeks redden. What does he think of me? Should I care?

Spock grabs my chin forcefully, tilting my head to look at him. He wraps his free hand around my naked waist and pulls me flush again him.

I gasp, my hands instinctively bracing against his chest.

"I believe I asked you a question, Cadet. Where did you go?"

"O-out, sir. To meet a friend." Despite the stutter of my voice, I don't hesitate in my answer, knowing that it would be pointless. It wasn't a complete lie. Gaila is a friend. In a way. My eyes dance around the room briefly before returning to his questioning face. My heart continues to pound frantically in my chest. I cannot deny that his behavior is frightening me a little bit and is alluring to me as well.

Commander Spock has a unique position in Starfleet. While the Empire is known for its xenophobia, its conquering of other races, the weaker sexes, he has managed to obtain a position of high standing among the ranks. He commands the respect of everyone around him. They fear him. The rumor among the cadets is that he murdered several officers to get to where he is. I have no way to know if that is true. It doesn't seem to jive with the philosophies of Vulcans. But, then again, this current situation—our standing in this room, ripe with sexual tension—doesn't seem to make sense either. To protect myself, I have to believe it. I have to believe that he is dangerous. Otherwise, I will become too lax, too complacent. And that will be that. Despite my time as his student, I do not know him well. He keeps to himself, as Vulcans are prone to do. He has never been particularly cruel to me, or to any other student, but he has never been particularly kind either. I am treading in unfamiliar territory; it's been far too long, and that wasn't my choice. I am treading in Gaila's territory. My Orion comrade would know exactly how to traverse this precarious situation and arrive on the other side unscathed. I do not.

His eyes scan my body once more. His typically blank face is slack, his eyes hooded.

I swallow harshly, my throat dry.

His eyes close briefly and he takes a deep breath. When he opens them again, he meets my gaze. "You left the campus grounds after curfew."

I say nothing.

"You should be reprimanded."

Those words garner my reaction and I shake my head. "No. Please." What can I do to convince him?

He tilts his head, confusion clear on his face. "Why?"

I continue to shake my head. Finally, I wrap my arms around my chest, protecting my breasts, though it is a futile and pointless move. He has already seen them, touched them. "Are you going to report me? For being a woman?"

"Logic tells me that I should."

I gasp loudly, tears burning in the back of my throat.

"Do you know the dangers, the punishment for the crime you have committed?"

I nod jerkily. "Yes, sir."

He brings his hand to rest on the back of my neck, pulling me close to him. "And yet, you still committed the crime. I must admit, I am impressed, but why?"

"Because the stars are all I've ever wanted." It is the truth. The stars mean freedom. The stars are my escape. I need them. Desire them. I may be helping Robau and his Resistance, but I am also here for myself. I want this freedom. I dream of it.

An eyebrow lifts. "An overly sentimental statement." He pulls me into a kiss.

I gasp against his lips, surprised by his sudden and unexpected move.

He takes the advantage of my opened mouth and slips his tongue in to mingle with mine.

My instincts tell me that I should fight this, that I should not allow him to do this, to seduce me. But with his hands on me, moving up my waist, cupping my breasts...I am powerless. I moan.

He propels me backwards, harshly pressing me against the desk, the rough edges digging into my buttocks.

I gasp sharply, the movement surprising me.

My hands move from his chest to the desk behind me, supporting myself against the surface top, leaning back slightly when he presses forward.

He continues his assault on my mouth. His hands drift from my breasts downward, caressing my sides. A hand falls to the waistband of my ill-fitting pants and tugs on the button.

My heart seizes. I am not sure I can do this. Not anymore. I pull away, gasping. "No."

Spock tilts his head. "You are not in a position to make demands, Cadet. If you do not comply, I will take you to the authorities myself."

My eyes widen and I let out a sharp gasp. Flashes of the agony booth run through my head. Would that be the worst of my punishment? Or just the beginning?

Spock leans in close, breathing deeply. "It would appear that you are not as unaffected as you would like me to believe."

I shake my head. "Please, sir."

Spock claims my lips again. His hands continue to work on my pants.

I shake fiercely. In fear? Anticipation? Arousal?

He frees the button, unzips the pants and pushes them and my panties down, completely exposing me. He wastes no time and slips a hand in between my legs to caress me.

I gasp against his mouth, but I do not fight him. I don't know if I could.

I don't know if I want to.

Spock breaks the kiss, resting his forehead against mine, his hand continuing its assault on my most intimate region. "You desire me. Do not deny it. I have read your thoughts, felt your emotions." He presses harder between my legs, eliciting a groan from my lips. "And I feel your desire here." He slips a finger inside of me. Then two.

My breath comes in short puffs. "You...you read my mind?" What did he read? Does he know my plan? My associations? But wouldn't he say something if he does know? It is only logical. Right? "I thought...I thought that was against Surak's teachings?"

His eyebrow rises. "You know of Surak? And of his teachings?"

My eyes slide close and I fight against my instinct to move against his hand, to give in to the pleasure he is wringing from my deceitful body. "Yes, sir." I don't know much—there just isn't a lot of information about the Vulcans, about their philosophies-but I know enough.

He gives a small smirk—I gasp at his emotional display and at the pleasure coursing through my body—and he says shortly, "I shall let you in on a little secret, Cadet. Surak's teachings are... at best, a misguided, but well-meaning narrow way of life. They have done the Vulcan race little to no good since they have been adopted." He kisses me forcefully.

I gasp against his lips, feeling the tingling sensation emanating from my nipples to my very core.

"What is your name, Cadet? Your **real** name?" He whispers against my lips. He does something with his hand, I don't know what, that has me shaking, quivering against him.

I gasp loudly, seizing his arm in my hand, and finally move against his hand, relishing in the feeling. "Nyota." I gasp again, in the grips on my climax, convulsing around his fingers, against his hand.

"Nyota." He nips my lips. "That is Swahili for 'star,' is it not?"

I nod, feeling slightly dizzy as I come down from my high, my legs shaking.

"It suits you." He steps back, looking fully at my nude body.

I know I should be ashamed, standing on unsteady legs before him completely naked while he remained fully dressed. It is scandalous. It **is** shameful. But it is also so arousing.

Spock's eyes casually drift across my body. He makes no effort to hide his appreciation, his arousal. "You are exceedingly beautiful, Nyota."

I shiver and keep my eyes trained on him, dropping to his hips, to the bulge of his pants before returning to his face.

"You will make an exceptional woman for any Captain of the Fleet."

I have always fought against that life, the life I escaped when I joined Robau and his followers. He saved me from certain misery. The men of the Empire only see women as prostitutes, only useful at spreading our legs. My own **father** saw women this way. He allowed me to be used when I was only sixteen. I don't like thinking about it; I don't like remembering that it happened. So I don't. But I must. Because, no matter how much I want to forget it, this reality stares me in the face every day. It is the law. Women, in this Empire, have no rights. It is this mindset, these laws that are so prevalent in our messed up society, which has colored Starfleet's recruiting policy. This is why women aren't allowed in Starfleet unless they are there to service the servicemen. Men are allowed and are expected to have one wife, with whom they are to have children. The rest of us...they are allowed to do to us what they please. It is demeaning, terrifying. And to hear him imply his intentions...it scares me.

I escaped it once. I don't want to do it again.

I flinch, tears of anger and frustration burning in the back of my eyes, then lash out. "I am no one's whore!"

His eyebrow rose, and the very edge of his lips curled upward. "I am inclined to disagree, Cadet. Were you not just rutting against my hand like a bitch in heat?"

The tears finally fall and I flush over my entire body. Gasping, I look away from him. No, I am more than that. Have I not proven that over the years that I'd been here, hiding behind the façade of a man? I am the top of the class. I am the best xenolinguist the Academy had seen; several of my professors—Benjamin's professors—attest to that, **have** told me as much. I am **more** than just my body. I hoped that a **Vulcan** would see that. Perhaps I have been illogical. Mistaken. He is the only Vulcan I know.

Spock steps toward me, quickly closing the distance between us. He forces my face up, gripping my chin forcefully, and brings his lips down upon mine once more.

I gasp but do not respond, not like I did previously. I falter in my plan. I can't go through with this. I am afraid of this it would entail. I squeeze my eyes closed and press my lips together tightly.

He pulls away. "You will comply. Or I will turn you in."

"Why? Why are you doing this? You already said it was logical to report me." My eyes squeeze shut. I am fearful of his reply.

He tilts his head. "Is that what you would prefer?"

I shake my head. "No," I whisper. I would prefer to return to earlier this evening, when no one knew my secret, when I was just Benjamin Uhura, who was well on his way to becoming the top xenolinguist in Starfleet.

He kisses me gently. "I can make this pleasurable for you, Nyota—and indeed, I have no desire to cause you unnecessary harm—but you must comply, submit to me. Submit to me and I shall protect your secret. I shall...lie for you." He kisses me again, longer, deeper. "But, you must remember, you are a criminal. And logic tells me that this is..." He pulls me closer, caressing my back, my hips. "Logic tells me this must be dealt with." He seizes the back of my thighs and pulls me toward him, lifting me, and I instinctively wrap my legs around his waist. He whispers against my lips. "You must convince me to ignore that logic."

Spock walks to the desk and lays me down upon it. Standing straight, he removes his jacket, his undershirt and reaches for the waistband of his pants.

I shiver.

He slides his pants down his waist and lets them fall to the ground, freeing his sizable girth. Without a word, he approaches my prostrate form, stepping out of his pants, and leans over, hovers over me, pressing his nude body against mine, ramming his length into me. He kisses me and I cry out against his lips. He thrusts into me with wild abandon and I let him.

I submit to him.


	3. Swirling Abyss of Degradation and Desire

I gasp loudly, my head falling forward to hang limply between my arms. Spock's left hand tightens on my hip and his final deep thrust propels me forward—he moans, a sound low in his throat, spilling his seed inside of me—and his right hand continues its sweet assault between my legs. My hands scramble for purchase against the smooth surface of the desk.

His hand leaves my waist and wraps loosely around my neck and he pulls my back flush against his naked chest—I am slick with sweat; we both are—and he breathes heavily in my ear, the thick puffs of air teasing the errant strands of my hair.

I moan and close my eyes, leaning my head against his shoulder. His hand expertly teases my core and I come once more, quivering around him and against him. He moans into my ear.

Spock turns his head and kisses the side of my neck with gentle lips, his tongue grazing my salty flesh. His right hand moves up, wrapping around my torso, just under the curves of my breasts. I whimper and let myself fall against him, somehow knowing he'll keep me upright.

My eyes flutter open and I sigh quietly. I look at his face as best as I can, turning my neck as much as his grip will allow. His eyes are closed and his face is slack in peaceful repose. It is a sight I did not think I would see. For a single solitary moment, he looks almost human, almost kind.

For that moment, I foolishly allow myself to imagine that this has been a joining between two lovers, two people who love one another. But I know that it wasn't. That's called making love, right? It's never happened to me before and I don't even know if I'd recognize it if I ever saw it. But I know he doesn't love me. I doubt he feels anything at all for me, except for blind lust. And I am using him. Using him to protect myself and using him to bring myself closer to my goal. I don't love him either.

I don't.

My eyes close again. I am ashamed of my actions. They were the actions of someone else. It wasn't me. Not any longer. I fought to escape that, but I am here now, once again succumbing. But my mission is of the utmost importance. Even if it requires me to do things that I never envisioned, never wanted to revisit.

Spock opens his eyes and pulls away, slipping out of me—I moan at the loss. Was it a loss?—and he wraps his hands around my waist and turns me around to face him. He places his hands on my cheeks and draws me into a gentle kiss.

My eyes widen briefly and I gasp in surprise before I finally react, giving into the kiss. My hands settle low on his waist and I step close to him, bringing our nude bodies flush together, feeling his chest against my breasts. I still want him. Despite what he did to me, what he said to me.

Spock moans and deepens the kiss, brushing his tongue against mine briefly. Breaking away, he rests his forehead against mine. "I apologize, Nyota."

I pull back and look at him, my brow furrowed. His statement confuses me. Why is he apologizing? "What?"

"I have been unnecessarily rough with you." His hands skim my sides, my hips. He held me tightly to the point of bruising when he pounded roughly into me. I should have been appalled at the time, frightened. But I wasn't. Why wasn't I?

But this is not the time to figure it out.

"It doesn't matter." I shrug my shoulders, looking at his chest, avoiding his eyes, and step away from him. One fear still weighs heavily on my mind. It was why I allowed this. He promised. He wasn't going to recant, was he? "You still aren't going to report me, are you?"

He tilts his head, gazing at me. "I informed you I would not. Despite what my logic tells me."

I am hesitant. And just moments earlier, I was an eager participant, giving as much as I was receiving. I am confused. I am alternating between shame and lust, between anger and desire. It is tiring. "But only if I give myself to you? For how long?"

He looks at me silently for several moments and I grow evermore uncomfortable under his unwavering gaze. What is he thinking? Why is he looking at me like that?

Finally, he speaks and his voice quiet, calm. "Of course." He stands straight, heedless of his own nudity. He places his hands behind his back, still managing to look regal and composed in his traditional stance. And I am suddenly struck with the bizarre desire to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. It's been so long since I've laughed. Do I still remember how? He is naked and still looks regal. Perhaps I should laugh? Is that appropriate? Probably not. In any case, he wouldn't appreciate the humor; he is Vulcan.

He speaks louder. "You must continue to convince me. I shall require your presence in my quarters tomorrow evening. Do not dress like a male. I wish to see you as you are. A woman."

My mouth opens and closes briefly. I did not expect that order. If I am to show up at his place but not dressed in disguise, how did he wish for me to dress? Like a prostitute? I want to argue. His quarters are on campus, as most officers' are. Any of Starfleet's officers could see me. Any of them could report me. And it would be over. I will not lower myself further by allowing any other man the use of my body. I at least hold a physical attraction, a desire for the Vulcan Commander. But not for anyone else. I grow angry, my anger sending tendrils of frustration, fear throughout my body. I release a long sigh, looking at him. "And what am I supposed to do if someone sees me? I'll be finished here!"

His gaze grows stark and he stalks toward me.

I fight the urge to shrink away from him, suddenly feeling intimidated.

He towers over me, forcing me to look up. He grabs my hair and pulls, forcing my head to the side. His grip hurts and I struggle not to vocalize that pain. I do not want to give him the satisfaction. I have given him too much already.

He leans in close, breathing harshly in my ear. "That is not my concern. You are obviously a resourceful woman. I have every confidence that you will prevail."

"But, sir—"

He pulls on my hair once more and this time I can't stop the small whimper from escaping my lips.

"You are not to argue with me. Is that understood?" His harsh gaze broaches no argument.

I drop my eyes. I want to hate him. He is forcing me to be in a position where I am in danger of discovery. And he doesn't care. He doesn't care that I am risking everything to be here. He doesn't care about anything other than his own pleasure. Another part of me disagrees with that statement just as I think it. Tonight has been just as much about my pleasure as his; he made sure of that. He made sure I was comfortable enough with his actions; he made sure I was receiving as much pleasure as he was, if not more. But the next moment...now...he is behaving like a real bastard. It confuses me. And now, he wants me to do this...I don't know if I can. But I fear his retaliation if I disobey. "Of course, sir."

He nods briefly. "Good." He releases his grip on my hair and steps around me, moving to the desk, and retrieves my stark red uniform jacket. He hands it to me. "You have exceeded expectations tonight, cadet. It was a most...pleasing experience."

My cheeks redden. And I have my answer. But now, I wish I didn't. It would be so much easier to pretend. But he clearly only sees me as a whore, just like most men in Starfleet, in the Empire see women. I take the jacket, my hands shaking in repressed shame and anger. "Thank you, sir."

He watches me silently, standing still.

I quickly dress, not looking at him. Unable to look at him. My face reddens in shame when I am forced to my knees to look for the scattered barrettes he threw when he removed my wig. He did not help me. One moment I think that I will be okay with this arrangement, and the next, he says something that brings all the shame and self-disgust back. Of course, it meant nothing else to him. And it shouldn't mean anything else to me. I am only doing it for self-preservation.

I figure if I keep telling myself that enough times, I'll believe it.

"I shall see you tomorrow then, sir," I say when I finish dressing. Everything is in place. My wig is on, my hair safely confined within. I still can't look him in the eye.

He steps toward me and brings a hand to my chin, tilting my head back gently and placing a small chaste kiss on my lips.

He retreats before I can react.

"Good evening, cadet."

I stand silently for a moment, looking at him. Why does he do that? Why does he go from cold and unfeeling one moment and kind the next? I don't understand him. I am not sure if I can ever understand him. He is a Vulcan. An alien. And a killer. Perhaps there isn't anything to understand. Perhaps there is no way I can understand.

My eyes drop to the floor before rising to his again. My mouth opens briefly, as though I was about to speak—and maybe I was, though I don't know what I would have said—then closes. I turn around and leave the office quickly.

* * *

I enter the darkened dorm and the door slides closed behind me with a gentle swoosh. I quietly move to my desk, and lay my duffle bag on the chair. My return to my dorm was, thankfully, uneventful.

A light switches on.

That is a small grace that doesn't last for long.

I barely suppress a gasp, my heart leaping in my chest, and spin around to face my roommate sitting casually on his bed, thankfully wearing his regulation sleep attire. I do not want to face him, particularly if he is nude.

"Kirk. Didn't think you'd still be awake." I turn away from him, looking down at my desk. My nerves are suddenly on end.

He chuckles. "And where were you, Uhura? Out past curfew?"

I don't answer.

He stands from his bed, the mattress shifting under his movements. He shuffles toward me, his footsteps heavy on the ground.

I stay still, my heart racing slightly. I don't like him. I despise him. He disgusts me. He is the very essence of what made the Empire, made Starfleet so deplorable. The way he treats the women he sleeps with...fucks; he doesn't sleep with any of them, doesn't make love to any of them. I can still remember vividly the incident that occurred the first week we were roommates. I returned to the room and found him fucking a woman, heedless of her cries, her tears. His hands wrapped around her throat, her hands scratching and clawing at his hands and arms—she was a fighter; that's a rarity, I'm told—and he hovered above her, pounding her mercilessly into the mattress. I remember the way the woman looked at me, desperate for help, and he followed her gaze, turning to me, smiled, and asked if I wanted to join in. I remember how I did nothing, just backed slowly out of the room and ran back to the xenolinguistics building. I should have done something. I should have reported it, I know, but I don't know anyone who would have cared. And I was still so frightened, so nervous that my own secret would be discovered and that I would find myself in the same position as that woman, receiving that same brutal treatment from Kirk, from anyone here. So I ran.

I don't know what happened to her. I never saw her again. I hope she's still alive somewhere, but the realist in me says she's probably dead.

"Oh, come on, Ben. Tell me where you were."

I still don't look at him, shuffling carefully though my bag and retrieving several PADDs. "Leave me alone, Kirk." I place them on my desk—I hoped to get a few minutes of quick studying in before I went to sleep; now I'm not so sure that will happen—and, grabbing the bag, made my way towards the bathroom. I halt briefly at my dresser, opening a drawer to retrieve my pajamas.

"Were you out with someone?" He takes a deep breath. "You reek of sex, you know."

I whirl around and face him. I struggle to maintain an aura of nonchalance in his presence, but he scares me, more than I care to admit. More so than even Spock. "Some of us don't like to talk about it."

He laughs. It's a cold chilling sound. "You are such a fucking pussy, you know that?"

I turn my back to him once more. "Whatever." I really want him to leave me alone. I hate talking to him, acknowledging that he is in the same room as me. I can't help but question why he is confronting me tonight of all nights. He has never given much consideration to me previously, for which I am eternally grateful. But tonight, here he is, confronting me. And after what happened with Commander Spock, it makes me extremely nervous. I reach up and surreptitiously run my hand across my wig, making sure it is still secured. It is and I relax slightly. That can't be why. He does not know my true identity.

I hope.

"I think I finally figured you out."

"Yeah?" I feign interest. And maybe there wasn't so much pretending. I was absolutely terrified of the next words that could come out of his mouth. They could be anything. They could be my death sentence.

"I kinda figured you for being a little cocksucker. Like 'em big?"

"What the hell are you talking about?" I turn to look at him again, placing my hands on my hips.

Kirk approaches me slowly, grinning smarmily. His hand drifts to the front of his pajama pants and he cups himself.

I step back unconsciously, my back hitting the dresser behind me. It rattles under the contact. I am about to become that woman I didn't save. I lick my dry lips and drop my eyes to his crotch. "What are you doing?" My voice cracks.

"I mean, you're not usually my type—I don't normally do guys—but what the hell." He frees and strokes himself. "They say this time is about experimentation."

I gasp, my eyes darting away from him, towards the far wall.

He steps closer. "You suck my dick and...depending on your performance I may or may not tell anyone you were out past curfew. Wouldn't want our star cadet to be expelled, now do we? What would all the professors say?"

Stepping forward, I shove him away from me. He stumbles back, falling on the mattress. I grab my bag and head for the exit, trying to ignore his laughter.

I try to ignore the tears burning in my eyes.

* * *

My eyes drift closed briefly, my head tilting forward, before I jerk straight in my seat, giving a quick shake of my head.

I am the first one in class. That, in and of itself, isn't unusual, but this time, I am here simply because I have nowhere else to go. I am terrified to return to my dorm and I don't know what to think about what happened in the xenolinguistics building last night.

After my encounter with Kirk, I ran, escaping into the cool night beyond the door. I ended up sleeping, curled uncomfortably, bent and folded awkwardly in a chair in the basement of the library. Not that I received much sleep, constantly on alert for every tiny sound I heard.

And now, I sit in my typical seat in my Andorian language class twenty minutes before class begins. I am exhausted, confused, and terrified. My eyes wander to my duffle bag sitting next to my chair. My personal PADD is buried in the bottom of the bag. My personal PADD that is linked to Gaila and Robau.

I could call them, tell them I have been compromised and need to pull out. Then, I would be safe. Away from Kirk. Away from Spock.

My fingers twitch where they lie on the small desk. I make a small movement towards the bag but then halt, taking a deep breath. I close my eyes. I am their only implant. Their only way to bring the Empire...to bring Starfleet down.

It is my only ticket to freedom.

I have to remain.

I have to.

My eyes open and I sigh heavily, settling back in my seat. My fingers shake and I try to calm myself, tapping wildly on the desk.

I suppress a yawn, eyes watering slightly. I look around the empty room for a moment.

My eyes drift closed.

A loud noise—a book slamming onto a desk, perhaps—sounds and I jerk back in my seat, gasping and my eyes opening.

"If you are not feeling adequately rested, cadet, then perhaps you should adjust your schedule accordingly."

Light laughter echoes in the lecture hall.

My eyes widen and my jaw slacks when I look up at the professor who woke me. It is Spock. My stomach seizes and my heart races. Why is he here? He is not the professor for this class.

Commander Spock stands at the lecture podium, hands behind his back, and looks at the class's small contingent of students. "Professor Veleen is unfortunately—" He looks at me, sending shivers down my spine. "—Indisposed, indefinitely. I have offered my skills and time to help aid the xenolinguistics department until such a time that a replacement Andorian professor can be acquired. I possess Professor Veleen's extensive notes and have made several notations of my own." He presses several buttons on the lectern and the large screen behind him illuminates, showcasing the translations the students left off with. "I believe this class had been preparing to discuss the Andorian supine and ablative absolutes."

I watch helplessly when Spock begins his lecture. My head drops briefly to my desk and I quickly lean towards my bag, retrieving my note PADD. I try desperately to pay attention, listening to his smooth stoic voice lecturing. But it is a moot exercise. I remember that voice whispering harshly in my ear as he pounded into me roughly. I remember the words that spilled from his lips unbidden and the subtle threats he made.

Thousands of scenarios run through my head regarding Professor Veleen's sudden disappearance. And none of them are pleasant.

Spock does not remain still during his lecture. He moves around the room, speaking softly but clearly. Often, he stands next to me, looking down at me as he spoke.

I can't look at him, keeping my eyes glued to my PADD, writing notes furiously.

I believe that he is responsible for Veleen's sudden departure. I hate to think what he did to the elderly Andorian man. But, it is convenient, too convenient, I think, for Veleen to suddenly disappear and for Spock to suddenly volunteer his services. He is not known on campus for being the friendliest of professors, for being the most helpful. He is not known for his generosity.

I feel hot.

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable, running a hand across the back of my neck. I want out of there. I can't stay.

But I can't leave either. Not when his eyes bore into me and he calculates my every move, my every breath. He is testing me. He must be. He wants to make sure I do as he orders, keeping me in check. And I am trapped, unable to do anything but submit.

I suppress a sigh with great difficulty and tighten my grip on my PADD, taking notes with shaking hands and his eyes on me.

Eventually, Commander Spock dismisses the class.

I release a deep breath of relief and pack my PADD into my bag. Quickly, I rise to my feet and move down the aisle, heading for the exit.

"Cadet Uhura. If I may have a word with you."

I freeze, my throat dry like cotton. I remain still, letting the other students move past me, then, once we are alone, turn around slowly. "Yes, Commander?"

He walks up the steps, approaching me. He stopped roughly one foot in front of me.

I look away from him, focusing on the podium at the bottom of the steps.

"Did I hinder your ability to receive an adequate amount of sleep?"

Surprised, I look at him. His face is blank, void of any emotion; not that I expected anything different but it makes it difficult to read him. I can't ascertain his reasoning for asking. Slowly, I shake my head, my eyes dropping to his chest. "No, sir. It wasn't you. I, uh, I had some difficulty with my roommate. It won't happen again."

He nods. "See to it that it does not."

I look at him. "Yes, sir." I look briefly behind me, towards the exit. "Is that all, sir?"

He is silent for a moment, staring at me.

I shuffle on my feet, growing uncomfortable.

"Yes. Please, do not forget our standing arrangement for tonight."

"Of course, sir." I look back again. "May I leave?"

He nods. "Yes. You are dismissed, Cadet."


	4. The Submission to Pleasure

I feel self-conscious, terrified. I keep my eyes down, my face lowered, traversing the confining halls of the officers' apartment complex. The building, like most on the campus, was bland, but this one seems worse. It feels like it's caving in, like it's going to swallow me whole. Devour me. Maybe it will. I don't know. I run my hands subconsciously down my dress, smoothing the wrinkles. The black strapless dress falls just above my knees and the bodice is form-fitting. My long black hair—it's curly tonight; I tried to return it to some of its old life tonight, though I don't know why—drapes in front of my face, but I make no attempt to run my hands through it, to push it back. I want... **need** the protection it afforded.

I encounter no less than three officers on my way to Spock's quarters. And every single one of them looks at me in much the same way. The open lust clear on their slack faces, their twitching hands held loosely at their sides, and harnessed just enough that they don't reach out and grab me. They all want me. Want to fuck me. Own me.

My heart pounds loudly in my chest. Tears burn my eyes. Damn the Commander for ordering me under threat of revelation. Damn him for ordering me to be so exposed. For being so vulnerable. I don't want this. I don't know if I can continue doing this. I have never wanted this kind of life, a life where I allowed myself to be controlled by a man. It scares me. I faltered last night, gave into the Commander and the pleasure he wrung from my traitorous body, but in the light of the following morning, I felt shame and self-disgust. This is something I never expected to do. I don't really know Spock, am not sure how I feel about him. Yes, he is physically attractive, but I need more. This is demeaning. What on earth will my mission accomplish if I am successful? It is clear from the expressions on the men's faces as I pass that they don't see me as a person, but rather an object to be used. It will take much more for these men to change. **If** they can change.

I eventually reach Spock's quarters and stand still in front of his sealed door. I should turn around. I should risk it and leave. Run away from here.

My hand reaches out and I press the button at the side of the door, alerting him to my presence.

I'm too scared to disobey.

A door slides open behind me and I freeze.

Someone steps out, footsteps light on the floor—barefoot, I assume—and leans against the wall opposite me, heaving a loud sigh. Whoever it is doesn't speak, but I can hear the rustling of his clothing, the inhalations and exhalations of his breathing.

I do not look back at him.

I reach up and press the button once more and again for good measure.

His door finally opens and Spock stands before me, looking remarkably different in his casual attire. A white shirt stretches tightly across the expanse of his lean chest. Loose pajama pants hangs low on his hips.

Slowly, I raise my eyes to meet his.

"What have you got there, Commander?" the man behind me finally speaks.

I cringe. I know that voice. He was one of my professors my first year and, in fact, recruited me—Benjamin, I mean. He didn't recruit **me**. He never would have knowingly recruited a woman.

"Good evening, Captain Pike. I am attempting, as you say, to bang that insufferable logic out of me."

The captain laughs boisterously. It sends chills down my spine. "Good for you, son. I was beginning to worry about you. Especially after you started spouting all this Surak-Vulcan business. That's not what I taught you." Pike steps forward and I tense.

I don't know what's going to happen next. He could look at me and realize who it is staring back at him. He could realize that I am Benjamin. And then, two things could happen. He could offer me the same sort of so-called protection that Spock has—I can't; I can't sleep with Captain Pike—or he will seize and report me. I don't know which would be worse.

He stops next to me and stares. I feel his eyes boring into me and fight the urge to move, to look. His eyes then move to Spock. "You don't think I could take her for a spin when you're done?"

I should have expected that. But, I don't know what Spock will say. I jerk my head up, meeting the Commander's eyes. No. Please do not let him, I want to beg, plead. It is bad enough that I must do this with you, I want to say. I cannot do this with another. Please, do not make me. Please, do not allow it.

I say all of this with my eyes. I can't voice it, not with Pike there. Not when he could possibly recognize me. So I remain silent, pleading with my eyes.

But I don't know if Spock can understand that sort of human body language.

"She certainly is a pretty little thing with a body made for fucking." Pike reaches out and runs a finger across my shoulder, down my arm.

I fight the urge to jerk away from his touch, nervous of what could happen if he sees my negative reaction.

Spock holds my gaze. "I do not believe that would be possible, Captain. As you know, Captain, Vulcans tend to be...possessive of their...property."

My eyes drop and my body flushes. Shame fills me and I am given confirmation of how little he views me. Because that's all I am in the eyes of the Empire. Property to be used by men. I was not chosen to be in the more protected position as wife to some man, some stranger. I was chosen to give men what they want, to be used as they seek whatever perverse pleasure they want from my body. That was my life before Robau and his promises. And maybe...maybe I am still being used. Maybe Robau is using me for his own goals. Maybe I wasn't chosen for this because **I** chose it. Maybe I was given this role because **he** chose me. Maybe Robau is not that different from these two men—one human, one Vulcan—that I stand before, shaking, wondering desperately what will happen next.

Pike scoffs. "Whatever you say, Spock. But I wouldn't let that one wander too far. Someone here would be more than willing to take her off your hands."

"I shall keep that in mind, sir." Spock reaches out and grabs me by the arm. It's not a gentle grasp and I wince. "Now, if you'll excuse me."

"Of course." Pike sounds upset; I am relieved.

Spock drags me into his quarters, closing the door behind us and engaging the lock. He moves in front of me and regards my appearance.

I feel uneasy, feeling his eyes upon my body, as though they can undress me. I never believed Vulcans could be such sexual beings, but the Commander stands before me, smoldering, his eyes hooded, his breathing erratic, and his fists clenching at his sides. It's strangely arousing. It's strangely terrifying. I grow warm.

"Your appearance is most satisfactory." Spock steps closer to me and places his hands on my waist, pulling me close. He skims his hands across my body, reaching my face. Cupping my cheeks in his hands, he seizes my lips with his, eliciting a sharp gasp. He immediately takes advantage of my startled reaction and slips his tongue into my open mouth, intertwining it with mine. My hands glide to his hips, settling there, and I feel myself drifting when his tongue thrusts against mine.

I let myself push my fears, my anxieties down. I feel myself submitting to him. If I am to do this, I must. It is easier to submit than to fight. These aren't my thoughts. At least, I don't think they are. I have never considered submitting to be above fighting. This is why I ran. But I feel—I gasp into his mouth—I feel like there's something in my mind, some thoughts fluttering in, telling me this. Telling me that allowing him to have my body is okay, that it's...safe. I relax against him slightly.

These are not my thoughts. I don't know whose thoughts they are. His? Or maybe they are mine.

Placing his hands on my bare shoulders, Spock presses me backwards, shoving me into the door behind me. My back hits it with a loud thump and I gasp, breaking the kiss and panting. My breathing echoes loudly in the stark silence of his quarters.

Spock's lips drift down my neck, skimming across my skin softly, and his tongue darts out to taste my flesh. His hands move from my shoulders down my body. He caresses my arms, the sides of my chest. His hands sweep under my breasts and I gasp once more, leaning heavily against the door. His hands don't linger for too long, already drifting lower. He reaches the hem of my skirt and pushes it up, letting it gather around my waist. His right hand moves lower still until he cups me. I forewent underwear; I didn't see the point since I knew exactly what he wanted when he ordered me to his quarters. His thumb and fingers move against my clit, lightly teasing. He slips in two fingers.

I gasp. It feels so good, his fingers against my flesh, moving inside me. It really would be simpler to cave into the sensations he expertly wrings from me. It would be. It really would be. But...I don't remember signing up for this. I remember Robau telling me I would never again have to do what I did before he found me. He promised me. And yet, here I am. I shouldn't. Immediately, I pull away, shaking my head. "No. Please. I don't think I can do this."

Spock jerks his head back, looking at me briefly. He then growls, a deep rumbling noise in his throat, and drops his head towards mine, forcing his lips upon mine again, unrelenting in his assault on my lips and my pussy. He says nothing. I didn't really expect him to.

I gasp against his lips and shake my head, jerking my head from side to side. My hands drift toward his shoulders and I shove him away.

He stumbles backwards slightly, caught off guard. His eyes narrow and, without warning, he grabs my throat, wrapping his strong powerful fingers around my neck and squeezing slightly, and shoves me again against the door. "I told you, Cadet. You may either submit to me, or I shall report you. You should know that lying is very difficult for Vulcans to do. We do not take dishonesty lightly. Do not make me recant."

I gasp and tears fill my eyes. My hands grasp his arm and I try to pull his hand from my throat, but his grasp is too strong. I whimper. Spock pulls me toward him and kisses me, shoving his tongue into my mouth, caressing my tongue with his.

Yes, it would be easier to submit.

Breaking the kiss, he drags me through his apartment and into his bedroom. He throws me on his bed.

I bounce slightly on the soft mattress and try to push myself back, away from him. He seizes my leg and pulls me closer to the edge of the bed. He crawls onto the soft mattress, hovering above me.

I look up at him defiantly despite tears streaming down the sides of my face. Though I must, I will not allow this to break me.

Spock matches my gaze with his own intense one. His hand drifts to caress the sides of my face, brushing away my tears.

My eyes drift closed. I don't know what to make of his gentle touch. It is so different from the roughness he utilized when he forced me into this room and onto this bed.

His hands move to my tousled curls, brushing them back. He leans forward and kisses me. I moan into his mouth and my legs drift upward, skimming across his hips, feeling the warmth of his skin through the thin material of his pants.

He pulls my hair, forcing my head back. My eyes close tightly and he kisses my throat and bites me along my clavicle.

He quickly stands and tears his shirt off, followed by his pants. He throws them both haphazardly in the room, not bothering to see where they land.

Leaning over me, he holds me by my throat, pressing me into the mattress, and slips his other hand against my clit, continuing his coercion of my arousal. He tightens his grip on my throat and I gasp. He kisses me once more.

I succumb, moving in rhythm with his hand, much like the night before. My eyes close. I want to just focus on the sensations. I want to forget everything else.

He reaches behind me and unzips my dress. He pulls it down my body and then I am exposed completely to him, watching him toss it behind him. I try to cover myself but he grabs my hands and pins them above my head in one hand. The order is clear. Do not move them.

Spock kisses and licks down my body, focusing on one of my breasts, then the other. Then he moves down my abdomen and finally stops at my pussy, running his tongue across my slit, latching onto my clit.

I keen, I moan, and I thrash against his face. My hands seize his hair and I press his face tighter against me. I expected some sort of reprimand, some sort of punishment for taking control of the situation, but he does nothing of the sort. He simply complies. It feels amazing.

He brings me close. Then stops.

I cry out, desperate for release.

He grabs my wrists and, moving upwards to hover above me, he pins them above my head once more. Then, swiftly, he enters me. I cry out and he thrusts in and out, roughly and deeply.

My eyes close and I ride out the intense pleasure.

He shifts his grip on my wrists to one hand and, leaning over me, placing his free hand on my throat, lightly pressing down. It should alarm me, but it doesn't. I am too far gone with the pleasure.

I moan loudly, keeping my eyes closed. I realize...I realize with a small amount of trepidation that I need this.

I **need** this. I need to feel his hands on me. I need to feel his lips upon me. I need to feel his cock pounding deeply into me. I need him.

"Look at me," he orders, thrusting deeply.

I don't comply, arching my back and throwing my head back. I am so close. I need this.

He tightens grip on my throat and I gasp. " **Look** at me." He sounds angry, aroused, pained.

I gasp again when his powerful thrust hits me just right and finally look at him. He no longer looks like the epitome of a Vulcan; his face is slack with arousal, mouth open and gasping, sweat trickles down his face. He leans closer, placing his forehead against mine. He pants harshly, his breath hot against my face, and we lock our eyes together. I am somehow unable to tear my eyes from his. He removes his hand from my throat and drifts down my body to my clit, rubbing it hard. I gasp loudly, arching my back and pressing my breasts into his chest.

"You are mine; do you understand?"

I nods jerkily and my eyes close again. My orgasm is imminent.

He thrusts deeply into me a few more times, tweaking my clit, and then I come, keening loudly.

He quickly follows me, seizing my hips and delivering one, two, three more powerful thrusts. He groans loudly. Collapsing against me and still pinning my hands, he kisses me deeply, almost lovingly.

A part of me wants to believe it's love.

But it's not.

He releases my hands, cupping my face. He still continues his kiss.

I bring my hands to his chest, stroking him. It is during this quiet time, as his lips move against mine, his tongue intertwining with mine, that I feel the all too familiar self-disgust return. I wasn't supposed to give into him as easily as I did. I was supposed to fight him. But I didn't. I shove him back. "Please."

Surprisingly, he complies, sitting back on his haunches, slipping out of me. He watches me.

I bring my hands to my face, hiding from his eyes, tears seeping out. "Why are you doing this?"

Seemingly uncaring, he says, "Need I remind you that you placed yourself in this situation. You are breaking school rules and the Empire's laws by pretending to be a man."

"Then why don't you just report me?" I cry out, dropping my hands to the mattress. I am frustrated. Mostly at myself.

He tilts his head to the side. "Is that truly what you would want me to do? Turn you in?"

"It can't be any worse than being your whore." I look at him in earnest, tears falling.

He is unaffected. I am not surprised. "I am inclined to disagree. Were I to turn you into the authorities, you would be subjected to inhumane torture and punishment for your insubordinate behavior. With me, I can offer you pleasure and protection."

"In exchange for what?"

"I do not understand."

"Why are you willing to do that? Protect my identity?" I need to know. I don't care the consequences.

He looks at me. "You are one of the best students I've had in all my time teaching. You are unmatched in xenolinguistics. You possess an intelligence that is rare. Your presence in Starfleet would be a great benefit. One I do not wish to deprive it of simply because you are a female."

We look at one another without words for several moments. I think we're sizing each other out. Testing each other. I don't know who wins.

He stands and moves to his closet. He opens the door and retrieves two robes. He lays a dark blue one on the bed. "You may leave when you wish." He says nothing more. He slips into his black one and leaves the room.

I stare at his retreating form then the robe. I hesitate. I am unsure what his angle is. I don't understand him. I shiver. With a small sigh, I reach out and grab the robe, slipping it on. It was a small comfort to hide my nude body.

He wants me to leave. Right? He wants me to leave, but he's phrasing it as a choice. Do I have a choice? Do I have a choice to do as I want? Do I have a choice when I could be sentenced to torture...death...if I disobey? I don't want to return to the dorm. I don't want to see Kirk in there. He terrifies me. I can't deny it. I won't. I don't want to go to my dorm. I don't. That's my choice. Do I have it?

I get off the bed and head out of the room, clenching the robes tightly to my form.

I really look at his quarters for the first time. They are dark, but I can see that they decorated in what I would view as a very Vulcan tradition. Spartan. Warm colors. Spock seems to have a very eclectic style. It suits him, I decide. A single light permeates the darkness from the kitchen area. I head there, my bare feet padding softly across the floor.

He is in there, preparing a soup or something. He stands at the counter, knife in hand, cutting various vegetables. I've never seen them before, so I assume they must be Vulcan in origin. I wonder how he managed to get Vulcan produce here. I wonder how it wasn't confiscated. I say nothing but watch quietly, leaning against the doorway. I watch him bring the knife swiftly, deftly down upon the vegetables, slicing them with ease. He could do that to me. He could slice me so easily, so quickly. He's done it before, right? That's what they say anyway. I don't want to think of that.

He glances at me and our eyes meet for the briefest of moments before he breaks eye contact, returning to his task. "You may stay to eat if you wish."

He's giving me a choice. I've never had a choice before. Women aren't given choices. We aren't allowed choices. I thought I had a choice with Robau and his great vision of a better Empire, a better Starfleet. And maybe I do. But maybe I don't. I never realized how meaningful a simple choice could be. Tears burn my eyes and I bring a hand up to brush them away. I don't want to cry. That's a choice.

"What are you making?" I look at him with curiosity. And I am curious. And I'm hungry.

He halts his slicing and looks at me again, longer. "I am preparing _barkaya marak_. It is a Vulcan dish that my mother greatly enjoyed. She said it was one of the few Vulcan dishes that agreed with her human palette. I am told its taste resembles that of cream of spinach."

"Human? Your mother was human?" I did not know this. I did not expect this. I didn't think it was possible.

He grows silent, cutting several more vegetables. I wonder if he's going to answer. Eventually, "Yes."

"Where is she?" I have no idea why I ask this.

"She is dead." He drops his head and leans against the counter.

"I'm sorry."

"She was found with my father and me after she ran away from her previous situation. The Empire declared that she was to be executed for violating the law. I was four years, two months and three days of age."

I drop my gaze, staring at the floor. I don't know what to say to him. He has shared something with me. Something important to him; that much is clear. That much I know. I don't deserve it. I watch him set the knife in the sink and place the vegetables in a large pot on the stove. He turns it on and places a cover over the top. Turning to me, he approaches. I cower, dropping my shoulders and my head. Immediately, I am ashamed at my behavior. He didn't approach me in anger. Right?

"I will not harm you." His voice is a whisper. He places his hand gently under my chin and lifts my head. He tilts my head from side to side, no doubt examining my throat. It hurts. Bruises are slowly forming, I assume. I haven't seen myself in a mirror yet. "Please, remain here while I retrieve a dermal repair kit. It seems, despite my intentions, that I have indeed caused you harm." He retreats from the kitchen crossing his quarters to the lavatory, I assume.

I remain where I am, staring at the stove. I hear him opening and closing some cabinet drawers. Then return.

He sets the kit on the counter and retrieves the small device from its container. He places a hand gently on my chin and proceeds to repair the damage he's done. "I will not ask why you are here in Starfleet, nor will I ask you how you managed to infiltrate the institution without detection. But I will assure you that I do not wish to harm you. I only wish to protect you."

Tears fill my eyes and I nod slightly, swallowing the lump in my throat and looking down, staring at his chest. He keeps telling me that he only wants to protect me. But I don't understand. Why would he want to? How does protecting me involve him fucking me? I decide that it must be something to keep me in line. But why does he continue to alternate between cold and callous to gentle, almost caring the next? I'm confused. He wants to protect me; I want that protection, need it, in fact. But I am willing to betray him if and when the time comes. We are not working together. I know my goals. But what are his?

He sets the kit on the counter and brushes my hair back. "Nyota." It is the first time tonight that he has referred to me by name, my real name, not Cadet.

I look at him and he kisses me, gently, sweetly. I feel my tears spill from my eyes and I choke back a sob. It has been so long since I last cried. I have not been able to afford it. I have been keeping this trapped inside for so long.

He breaks the kiss. "You may dine with me if you wish; there is enough sustenance for us both. Afterwards, you may return to your dorm."

The dorm is where Kirk is. "I don't want to go back there."

"Who is your roommate?"

"Cadet Kirk."

He stands more erect, breathing deeply. "Has he harmed you?"

I shake my head. No, not yet. "Can I please stay here?" I sob. I should be ashamed of my weakness, but I find I no longer have the strength to care.

He looks at me for a moment, silent. Then, "If that is your desire, I have no qualms."

I nod and sob loudly, leaning into him. I wrap my arms around his waist, hugging him and sobbing into his chest. Awkwardly, he returns my embrace.


	5. The Theft of Choice

He collapsed against me with a loud groan, unconcerned that his large oafish body threatened to suffocate me. I gasped under his weight. I blinked furiously, trying to rid myself of my tears. I could still feel him crammed inside of me. It disgusted me. I wanted him out and I wanted him off.

I was nineteen. I've been this man's...courtesan since I was sixteen. No. Not courtesan. Courtesan has a courtly appeal. Almost a romantic one. Courtesan implies high class, high standards. And a certain level of choice.

I didn't have a choice.

I didn't have a choice when my father had allowed this man to have me, to do as he pleased with me, while my own mother had sat stoically by—that was the day I decided that my parents were dead to me; I had hoped that they would be different and I had been proven wrong—and I didn't have a choice when this...bastard stole my virginity from me, tore it from me, laughing as I screamed. I didn't have a choice when this bastard had forced me to leave my own home to join him in his, so that I could be his disposable sex toy whenever he wanted. He could do anything he wanted to me.

I didn't have a choice.

I felt the rapidly forming bruise on my jaw. It throbbed. It ached. He didn't like it when I fought back. He let me know that every time. And maybe I'm a masochist, or maybe I'm thick, but I never ceased fighting. Every time he came for me, I was ready.

I was always beaten down.

He was simply too strong for me. And I was weak. Always weak. Kept alive with the bare minimum of food; he always complained when he had to feed me. Like he was disappointed that I was taking over his pantry.

He was an Admiral of some kind or another. Well respected and well liked, I gathered. I didn't really know. I didn't really care.

To me, he was my jailor, my rapist—but, shh, according to the Empire's laws, women have no rights, cannot be raped—my own personal hell.

I wanted to shove him off. I wanted to breathe freely, to not feel his hot, heavy breath on my shoulder, to not feel his softening prick inside of me. But I was trapped. My hands were bound in tight shackles, my wrists bruised and tender where the leather had rubbed them raw—from when I had tugged desperately—on both sides of the bed. It was something this Admiral decided was necessary after I had successfully knocked two of his teeth out once. I'd almost gotten away that time.

Women weren't supposed to fight back. We were supposed to be demure, to lower our heads and take it. It is what we were taught as we grew up. It is what is expected of us. Our societal expectations and obligations. We don't have choices. We don't get to say 'no.' We don't get to say that we wish we could do this or we wish we could do that. That's not how it's done.

I lay beneath this oaf of an Admiral, his crushing weight making it difficult to breath. I tugged helplessly at my bindings. I shifted underneath him. It was useless. Tears flooded my eyes.

He snored, unmoving.

I lay beneath him, gasping, crying.

* * *

Sometimes, the Admiral liked to have guests over. He was popular, after all. It was expected of him to host elaborate parties, celebrations of one thing or another. Often the guests were fellow Admirals, maybe some Captains...whatever. I never bothered to look close at their rank insignia. Often I wasn't able to. He liked to use me as the night's entertainment after dinner had been served. I hated those nights. It was bad enough with just him, but it was misery...torture when they all got involved.

I try not to think too much about it. I might scream if I do. I might break.

I sometimes wonder if there are women who grow to love the men who rape them repeatedly. I wonder if there are women who have developed a twisted need to be used in such a manner, to be broken. I wouldn't be surprised. When that life is all that you've known, the life you taught to expect, and you know of nothing else, then it's normal, right? I sometimes wonder why I couldn't be one of the ones who has accepted it and lived for it. It had to be a simpler life, void of desire, wishes, wants...expectations. I sometimes wonder why I have to suffer so.

* * *

I bit a man's prick once. Made him bleed, too. It was during one of the Admiral's parties. The man...a Captain, I think...I don't really care...he decided he was going to ram his dick into my mouth. I didn't like that, so I bit him.

As it turned out, he didn't like that either. And I wasn't able to walk for several days when he was through with me. You see, the Admiral let him do whatever he wanted to me after I did that. So he did.

When men can literally get away with anything when it comes to women...most of the time, their dark sides—and they all seem to have a dark sadistic side; I haven't met one yet that didn't except for Robau and the jury's still out on him, I suppose—come out. I was merely a tool to be used in their perverse sexual gratification. Most of these men had wives...I guess they weren't as fun when they had be kept safe from severe injury. After all, it wouldn't do to render your wife incapable of having children or whatever. It makes her useless. Then where would they be?

Or maybe I'm just misandrist. Couldn't really blame me for that, I suppose.

Time passed. My life passed.

* * *

When he was gone doing whatever it was that an Admiral of his supposed status did, I was left alone in my locked room. I didn't mind. It was a reprieve, at least.

But I was often left with only my own thoughts to accompany me. That was never good. I tried to end it all once. I figured that it had to better than a life as his...property. Unfortunately, he came home before I was able to and found me. He removed anything easily accessible in my room I could use after that. That's when I had to get resourceful.

I don't know when I started gaining an interest in language. It couldn't have been during my time with the Admiral. He never let me out enough to get exposed to such things. It must have happened after I joined Robau. Yes, that must have been when it happened.

Or maybe it was during my time with the Admiral. When I was first brought to his home, I was thrown into the bedroom. I stumbled and fell to the hardwood floor, crying out and hearing the outside latch click. I didn't get up; I stayed there, sobbing into my hands, my legs curled up into my abdomen. It was under the bed frame, scratched deeply into the wooden planks. Scratched and re-scratched. Over and over.

 _Nufau au sochya yi dungi ma tu sochya_.

I didn't know what it meant. I didn't understand it. But I stared at it for so long, so many times. I memorized it. It must have been important to the last woman. It must have been important to the one who had scratched into the hard floorboards, bleeding into the tiny crevices. I traced it with my fingers, imagining the woman. Was she tall? Short? Was she brave? Scared? Was she pretty? Did she abhor this place as I did? What happened to her?

I still sometimes wonder if that was left by the woman who was here before me. Or was it from the woman before her? The one before that? I didn't know. Because we are never expected to last for too long. We grow older; our bodies break down; we become undesirable. We become dispensable. Replaceable. I wonder what happened to her.

Probably dead.

* * *

Did I mention that I ended up killing the Admiral?

It started like any other time the Admiral decided he wanted me. He was hovering above me, ramming into me. And I lay beneath him, my eyes closed. I tried to imagine myself anywhere but here. I tried to imagine that it wasn't my body he was using. I tried to imagine that I was floating above the scene, floating away. It didn't work. It never worked. It didn't take away the pain, the shame. I still felt everything he did to me. I couldn't escape it.

That night, however, something was different. He'd forgotten to tie me down. I have no idea why. Maybe he was tired, maybe he was so eager to hurt me, to get off, maybe he just forgot. I didn't care. I used it to my advantage.

After he was done and collapsed on me once more, I stayed still for several moments. Then I grabbed the shank hidden under my pillow I had made out of the trip lever from the toilet—I can be resourceful when I need to be; I think I mentioned that—and stabbed him in the back. I was going to use it on myself originally. But then he showed up, slipped up. And I reacted. A gut reaction.

I wrapped my arms around his wide girth awkwardly, reaching around to his back. And I stabbed and I stabbed. Tears flowed, blood spurted.

It's disturbingly easy to tell when a man dies, when all life drains from his body. He sagged against me, a dead weight. The last of his breath escaped his lungs, expelling into my shoulder. He collapsed against me and I sobbed.

It was over.

He was the first man I'd kill.

I dropped the lever on the mattress, blood dripping from my hands. The sharp edges of the lever cut me deeply; it was jagged as I had worked feverishly to make it viable for slicing, for piercing. I didn't care. It was over.

With great effort—he was heavy—I shoved him off of me and out of me. Sitting up, I looked at his dead body, his bloodstained back seeping into the mattress and his dead eyes looking skywards in shock. I looked at my hands. My bloodied hands.

I didn't scream.

But I had broken the law. I killed him. And I didn't care. I didn't feel anything.

I ran.

There wasn't a lot of things a woman on the run, like me, could do. Especially one who had been so sheltered from everything. I only knew how to do one thing. I only had one option, really. Despite how much it killed me inside. Repeatedly, I allowed myself to be shoved roughly against the brick wall, as some man pounded into me relentlessly from behind. It could have been worse, I suppose. He could have invited his friends.

Sometimes he paid me.

Sometimes I went weeks without.

I once took control of a sexual encounter with a man. He was drunk and clumsy. And I managed to control that night, tying **him** up, riding him. I wanted to see what was so appealing about it. He didn't much like that. He managed to break free from his confines—I guess I didn't tie them tight enough—and he let me know. It took weeks for those bruises and cuts to heal.

This life continued for me for six months. Or maybe it was eight months? Nine? I can't really remember.

* * *

Then my savior arrived.

Robau.

He took me out of the whorehouse and into his safe haven. He told me of his great plans. He told me of his plans to change the Empire. And I was young enough and desperate enough to believe him.

Maybe I still do.

Robau introduced me to a whole new world. I had no idea that a Resistance existed. I had no idea that there were those who wanted to change the world, wanted to liberate women and aliens alike. It was overwhelming. Equality. Peace.

You will never have to suffer like that again, he promised me.

I sobbed that night.

I am amazed at your resilience, Robau told me. Not many who have endured what you did and come out unscathed.

I wanted to scream at him. I wasn't unscathed. I wasn't.

It was during my time there, in Robau's secret facility, among the fellow women that he had saved as well, that my training began. I learned combat training. I learned languages. It was liberating. It was amazing.

I didn't want to **not** understand again.

I learned. I knew things. I felt powerful for the first time in my life.

 _Nufau au sochya yi dungi ma tu sochya_. I finally learned what it meant. I wished I didn't. I wish I didn't because it shattered my hopes, my dreams for that previous woman. The words were Vulcan. I found it in a text discussing the teachings of some Vulcan philosopher named Surak. From what I could gather, he was the man behind the Vulcans' calm and peaceful society based upon logic. I thought that was odd. Vulcan women weren't usually forced to endure as human women; they were much stronger than human men. Wouldn't make much sense to try to force a woman who was stronger, faster. Or maybe she wasn't Vulcan. Maybe she was simply human. Maybe she liked the language, in the same way I did.

 _Nufau au sochya yi dungi ma tu sochya_.

Offer them peace then you will have peace.

What a load of shit.

* * *

The first time I ever experienced an orgasm was with Gaila. I had met the green-skinned, red-haired Orion my first night at Robau's. She had alarmed me with her vivacious and bubbly attitude. I wanted to ask her why she was so happy, why? There was nothing happy about this life. That night, she came to see me and she knelt beside me on my bed. She kissed me, told me she had something she wanted to give me. I nodded and she ran her hands and her lips across my body, slowly undressing me. I felt fear in the beginning, but it slowly melted into something else entirely. Pleasure. Intense pleasure. She joined me on the bed and knelt between my legs and kissed me and licked me...there. My initial reaction was one of terror—that place wasn't a good place—but she assured me, with gentle whispers and soft caresses, and soon I was soaring, moving in rhythm with her mouth and tongue and crying out as my insides clenched and I exploded, riding a wave of extreme ecstasy. It was amazing. She moved up and rested her chin against my stomach, smiling. How did you like your present, she asked. I laughed, my first real laughter since I was a child. It became something we would do for one another. She would come to me sometimes, complaining about Robau having someone else warm his bed, and we would pleasure one another. It wasn't a relationship—there was no exchange of platitudes, no handholding in dark corners, no secret smiles—but merely a means to an end. I learned of the concept of friends with benefits.

I quickly learned that Robau had a certain way of inspiring women. Gaila, it turned out, was one of his closest confidants; that's what she called it. He had many, but she didn't seem to care. Or maybe she did, I could never tell. She once told me that Robau was interested in making me one; she didn't seem too pleased with that and I didn't know how to feel about that. I felt like I should be honored, pleased that he thought that highly of me, but I didn't really understand what it entailed. Gaila often spoke to me about making love to him. How beautiful it was, that we were allowed to make love. I didn't understand what she meant. I didn't understand this concept of making love.

I knew **of** love.

I had loved my mother when I was child. I knew that. I knew that very much. But I stopped when she betrayed me, when she didn't stop my father, because that's what's expected of women. But I was sure it wasn't the same as what she spoke of.

Maybe I wasn't meant to understand her.

* * *

My awakening is slow. The blurred lines between the waking world and the dream world gradually fade and my eyes open. I blink them, feeling the grittiness in them. I run a hand across them, trying to clear them. I am confused, trying to remember what happened last night. It's only a moment before my memory catches up with me and I remember the Commander. I remember having sex with him. I remember his forcefulness. It was intense. I remember our awkward conversation in the kitchen, his gentle touch when he healed my bruises. I remember him holding me when I broke down, sobbing against him. He said nothing to me, just held me. It confuses me. I can't deny that. I look down at my body. I'm still wearing the blue robe, tied tightly around my waist. He allowed me to dress myself afterwards.

I sit up, pulling the sheets around my waist, and scan his room. I'm alone. Spock is not in here. The morning sunlight streams into the room and dances across the bed as the leaves on a nearby tree outside are tousled by a light breeze. I watch it for several moments, trying to organize my thoughts, trying to determine what he's doing.

He confuses me. He tells me that I belong to him, that I am his...but then he gives me choices. It's a certain amount of freedom. A small freedom, but it's one I haven't had much of. I don't understand him. I don't understand his motives.

I flip the sheets off my body. It's pointless to remain in here. If I want to figure out what's going on, I need to leave this room.

I find him in the living area, seated at his desk. He is dressed in his pale blue uniform, the golden sash tied around his waist, the medals pinned on the left side of his chest glinting in the morning sunlight. He looks from his computer screen towards me, nods, acknowledging me, and then returns his attention to the screen.

I don't know what to do, standing before him. I wrap my arms around my waist, looking at the floor. It hits me that I'm waiting for an order. An order that may not come. I look up, my eyes darting around the room. I should do something. I can't just stand here.

I decide that I am hungry. I go into the kitchen area.

He says nothing.

I open the refrigerator, the items in the door rattling with the movement, and peer in, bending slightly at the waist. I don't know what I expect to find in a Vulcan's...half-Vulcan's refrigerator. I vaguely recall something about them being vegetarians. And that seems to be true for him. I find no meat products in here. There is plenty of vegetables and fruit, some I recognize, some I don't.

A hand snakes around my waist. I gasp, standing straight, my back pressing into his chest. I release my hold on the door and it closes. I freeze in his grasp. Did I do something wrong?

"I apologize. I did not intend to frighten you." He speaks calmly, softly, his breath fluttering across my ear. I shiver.

I shake my head. "I didn't mean—"

"I am not upset."

I feel my heart slowing. I relax slightly. "Okay." I keep my voice to a whisper.

His hands slowly turn me around and I face him, looking into his eyes. In the morning light, I am once again struck by how human they seem. I noticed something different about them before, but after last night's revelation, I now understand what I saw. Now it seems so obvious. But human-alien hybrids aren't very common at all; in fact, I think he's the very first one I've met. He leans forward and places a gently kiss against my forehead before dropping his mouth to mine. We linger for a moment, savoring the taste of one another. This is another change I did not expect with the morning sun—no sign of the violent, possessive Vulcan of last night—but, it is one I do not object to.

He ends the kiss and rests his forehead against mine. "I feel that I must apologize to you."

My brows furrow and I pull back slightly to look at him. "Why?"

He raises a hand and runs it through my hair. "I...fear that our first two sexual encounters have colored our situation in a way I wish it did not. For that I apologize."

"What do you mean?" He didn't really do anything I was not expecting. I actually expected worse. His words confuse me but he does not elaborate further. He told me that I would have to do what he wanted or he would alert the authorities. He forced me into having sex with him. But he also held me last night when I cried, when I broke down and he said nothing. Why does he suddenly seem contrite? Is this a trick? Is he trying to lull me into a false sense of security? I don't know. But I know two things. I can argue with him and risk his retribution. Or I can pretend to understand, to accept. It would be easier not to incite his rage when it's unnecessary.

"If it does not offend you, may I ask how old you were when you were—" He hesitates. It seems somewhat surreal to see a Vulcan halt, stumble over his words. But I think I know what he's trying to say.

"When my father gave me away?"

He nods, dropping his gaze from mine. That is bizarre. Why would he adopt such a submissive pose for me?

"I was sixteen."

He takes a deep breath. "You were registered, were you not?" He motions at the ground. I follow his finger and see my right foot, where a tiny barcode tattoo is.

I remember the shame when I received it. My voice shakes when I answer. I don't want to remember. "Yes." We all were. Gotta brand the cattle, mark the merchandise, right?

"May I ask how you escaped?"

This time, I truly hesitate. This time, I can't answer him. I killed an Admiral of Starfleet in my escape. If I tell him, he'll have me arrested. He may be willing to hide my true identity, but I doubt he'd be as willing to shelter a murderer. "I...I don't..."

He cups my chin in his hand, tilting my gaze upwards, toward his. "If it is difficult for you, I would understand."

This is my reprieve. I take it. I nod. "Thank you."

"It is Saturday, as I am sure you are aware. As you have no classes today, you are allowed to remain here, for as long as you wish, if that is your desire."

I nod, grateful. I look forward to spending a day without fear. "Thank you."

"However, my presence has been requested at a mandatory meeting, so I must leave. I realize that my previous request for you to appear here dressed as a female may have placed an inconvenience upon you."

"What?"

He gestures to my—his—robe. "Your clothing. You cannot very well return to your dorm dressed as you came."

"Oh." I forgot. How did I do that?

"I am willing, after my meeting, to retrieve your disguise for you. May I ask where it is?"

I nod. I'm grateful that he will do that for me. It saves me trouble later, when I have to leave. "The xenolinguistics building. The office from...the other night." I hope he knows what I'm talking about, even though I know that he will. "The duffle is in the ceiling. Above Professor Veleen's desk. Fourth down from the door, third from the window," I say, referencing the ceiling panels.

He nods and kisses me gently, tongue intertwining with mine. I moan into his mouth, lifting myself to my toes and leaning into the kiss.

He breaks the kiss, runs a hand down my cheek then steps away from me. "I would recommend not answering the door or the comm."

I nod. I know that. Of course, I know that.

"When I return—I suspect it shall be within two hours and fourteen minutes—I expect for you to be ready for me." I understand. He wants me to have sex with him again. Once again, he has fallen to ordering me, expecting me to comply. It seems that the brief reprieve of kindness I received from him last night and this morning is over.

I suspect that if I don't do as he says, he will force me anyway.

He gives me a brief bow then leaves, the door opening and sliding closed behind him.

And I am left alone.


	6. The Unanswered Cries of Desperation

The door slides closed and the lock engages with a quiet hiss. And I am alone.

I stare at the sealed door for several moments. I don't know what to do exactly for the next two hours and...fourteen—or maybe it's thirteen now—minutes. I really need to get into contact with either Robau or Gaila and inform them of my latest progress. I've done what Gaila suggested. I am getting close to someone. Of course, I am doing it under duress; under the threat that he will turn me in if I disobey. I stubbornly ignore that part of my brain that tells me I'm doing it because I want it. But I want to think I am making progress. If only I knew exactly what kind of progress it was. If only I could be sure what to do now that I've made that connection.

I shift my weight from side to side, my arms wrapped securely around my waist. I feel awkward, out of place in his apartment without him here. Hell, out of place **with** him here. I need to contact them, but I have absolutely no way to do it now. No way to do it safely, anyway. So I must wait. Now, I need to think.

I release a small sigh and my stomach rumbles, reminding me of my initial hunger. I return to the kitchen area and open the refrigerator again. Again, I am faced with produce, most of which I know nothing about. There has to be something I'll like.

I finally settle on a small apple-like fruit, grabbing the reddish fruit, and closing the door. I lean against the refrigerator and bite into it. The taste is divine...heavenly. I was never allowed to have such scrumptious food when I was with the Admiral. I moan, allowing the juicy fruit to linger on my taste buds. I mulled the flavors of the unknown fruit. It was juicy and sweet, like a plum, but tart like an apple. When I finish, I want to eat another one, but I don't know if that would be allowed, so I refrain.

I need to do something.

I throw the fruit's core into the trash dispenser and look around the kitchen. I sigh and head for the living area. One wall is dedicated solely to bookcases, and they're full. I move over there. My eyes skim the book spines, catching the title to every other book or so. Some I recognize, some I don't. Many of them are Vulcan; some are Terran. For some reason, this surprises me, though I don't know why. Those that were written here on Earth look like they have barely been opened, their spines in pristine condition. Maybe the Commander bought them when he first arrived here; maybe he bought them to skim some insight into how humans think. I don't know how successful he would have been at that. Often, Terran authors spent their time and their words embellishing the reality; making a cruel existence seem desirous. I guess writers want to forget, too. I don't know what the Commander hoped to gain from such works. I look for some book that's out of place, some object. There isn't any and I sigh.

I look around the room. Apart for the great collection of books and a Vulcan lyre displayed in the opposite corner, he doesn't seem to own much else. But then, he's Vulcan, isn't he? He probably doesn't place much on the sentimental values of objects. That would be illogical, wouldn't it?

I move across the room towards his desk and pull out the chair, sitting down. I stare at the desk in front of me. It's Spartan. Pristine. Not that I expected any different. Not from him. I reach out and turn the computer on. I set my elbow on the desk and lean against my hand, waiting for it to boot.

I sigh.

Of course, he'd have it password protected. I have no idea what kind of password a Vulcan would use. Probably a long string of numbers and letters. Something complicated. Something I wouldn't be able to crack. I guess in situations like this, Gaila would have been a better choice. But she's not here and I am.

I drop my hands and lean back in the chair, crossing my arms. I need to do something. I feel useless. Robau is depending on me and for three years, I have had nothing to give him. I can't imagine that he'd be willing to wait much longer. He's going to want results.

I scan the surface of his desk. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No papers, no PADDs, no...anything.

I eye the lap drawer. Maybe there's something in there.

I lean forward and pull open the lap drawer on his desk. I fully expect it to be locked. I can't imagine that he would be lax when it comes to this.

It gives easily in my grasp, sliding open.

I gasp. I did not expect that. I pull it the rest of the way and lean forward, peering inside. I have no idea what I'm looking for; I'm just trying to find **something**. My last meeting with Gaila showed me that they're getting impatient. I need to produce something. Or I may be pulled.

Unsurprisingly, the contents of his drawer are well organized. I didn't really expect anything less. Not from him. Writing utensils—styluses, ink pens—are lined up along the front of the drawer. Extra and replacement PADDs take over the remainder of the drawer. I bite back a sigh, disappointed. However, I take out one of the PADDs—wouldn't hurt to be thorough—and turn it on. It's blank.

I turn it off and set it on the desk, reaching in for another one. Same results. Another. This one only contained his lesson plans, nothing more. I turn it off and grab another. Something flutters to the ground.

Curious, I set that PADD down and push the chair back, leaning forward to see what I've dropped. It's a piece of paper—while it was rare, some people still prefer the use of actual paper as opposed to the cold hard surface of the PADD, just as some people, The Commander included it seems, preferred the feel of a real book—turned upside down. I get out of the chair, pushing it further behind me, listening to it roll backwards. I kneel on my knees, the robe riding up around my thighs, and grab for the paper. I turn it over.

It's not a mere piece of paper. It's a photo. Photographs are decidedly rare in this Empire, even though we've had the technology for centuries, even though we've perfected that technology; they have mostly been reserved for military work and are not often seen for personal use. I've only seen a handful of them myself throughout my life. So, I am more than surprised to see this photograph to feature what looked like a family. A woman is seated against the trunk of a tree, her legs crossed in from of her. She is smiling, her beautiful brown eyes shining brightly. In her lap, a young child sits. He's smiling widely, displaying a gap in his mouth, where a tooth has fallen out. His dark hair shaped into a bowl cut. His brows are gently swept upwards. And his ears are pointed. He is grasping his mother's hands wrapped around his tiny little waist.

I gasp.

There is no doubt in my mind that this is the Commander and his mother. He looks just like her; they have the same eyes. And they are clearly happy in this image. His mother was happy. She loved him. The sight of this mother and son makes my heart ache. He clearly kept it for a reason. I remember last night. I remember how he grew silent when I questioned him about his mother.

He loved her.

Despite barely knowing her, barely getting that privilege before it was taken from him, he loved her. I can't imagine he has many memories of her. Children don't remember the past so well. But he's also Vulcan. And they're gifted with eidetic memories if I recall correctly. The irony of that thought is not lost on me, and I smile slightly before letting the upward curves of my lips fall. Maybe he does remember her. Maybe he does remember what was clearly a loving relationship. He was clearly wanted.

My eyes close and I lean back on my haunches, grasping the photo in my hands.

I envision my own mother behind my closed eyes. I wonder what she's been doing since she let me go. I don't even know if she's still alive. I don't even know if I care. I certainly don't care enough to find out.

I know I used to love her. And I used to think she loved me.

But I learned the truth.

I was exiting my bedroom, heading downstairs. I was smiling. I was so innocent. I always lived a rather sheltered life. At the time, during my childhood, I didn't really mind it or understand it. I knew I wasn't allowed to do everything that the boys were allowed to do, but I didn't understand why. I knew that women were expected to serve men in any way they saw fit. I didn't fully understand why. So, because I didn't understand, I believe I was rather naive.

I had just turned sixteen. And my mother called me downstairs. I went, quickly and without argument. If I had understood what was to come when I walked down those stairs, I would have run, I would have escaped. But I didn't.

We are going to have a guest tonight, my mother told me. I want you to make him feel welcomed.

I excitedly asked who it would be, as we rarely were visited by guests.

An Admiral friend of your father's, she answered. She didn't make eye contact with me; she simply sat in her chair, staring at the computer monitor. I didn't think anything of it at the time; she often stared at that monitor. So, I merely nodded and traipsed back upstairs, heading for my room.

I took great care in my appearance that night, picking out just the right dress, the right hairstyle, the right makeup. It took me a couple of hours; I used to be quite concerned with my outward appearance back then. That's something I'm sure a lot of teenage girls experienced. And I was no different.

That night, after the Admiral arrived, we sat down to dinner. I felt extremely uneasy under the watchful eyes of the man. He stared at me all night. I looked at my parents, trying to see if they noticed how he stared at me. They didn't. Or, if they did, they didn't comment.

Afterwards, I heard my father ask if the Admiral approved; of what, I had no idea. I do now, though, but not then. He said he did and that he was willing to pay my father. I thought the exchange was bizarre, but it was not my place to speak up.

Nyota, I want you to go upstairs and lie on your bed, my mother suddenly spoke.

I was curious. Why, I asked.

She got angry at me, glaring at me, shooting daggers at me. I shirked away.

Do not argue with me, she snapped.

I quickly caved in and went upstairs, lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling. I lay there for quite some time; I have no idea how long I lay there. I felt myself dozing off when suddenly the door creaked open—the door always creaked; I wanted it fixed, but my father always said 'no'. I now know why. It was so they could hear if I was sneaking out. I sat up, looking to see who it was.

My mother entered and came to the head of the bed. She sat behind me and cradled my upper body in her arms.

The Admiral entered. My father leaned against the doorframe, crossing his arms against his chest.

Mom, I asked. What's going on?

Do not fight this, Nyota. It is time, she answered. Her voice was cold, stoic.

The Admiral approached the bed, unzipping his pants and pulling out his prick. I remember panicking; I remember begging my mother to stop this. But she didn't. She maneuvered herself to where she sat on my hands, pinning them above my head, and she clamped her hand over my mouth to silence my cries, my screams. And she watched the Admiral tear my dress from my body and shoving my underwear down my legs, exposing me. And she watched the Admiral shove his prick inside of me—I screamed and screamed, but my cries were muffled by my own mother's hand—and he thrust into me, grunting like a disgusting animal, and something akin to sadistic laughter on his lips.

This is your fault, she whispered to me. I wanted a son.

A son would not have had to endure this.

Afterwards, as I lay sobbing on my bed, she packed my menial belongings up, and my father sent me to the Admiral's. That was the last I saw of them.

The Admiral's Wife reminded me a lot of my mother. Even though I only saw her once in my entire time there, I still remember it vividly.

It was during the first week of my prison sentence—that's what I viewed the place as; my prison—that I saw her. I was in my prison cell—my room—tied to my bed. The Admiral had just finished with me—I still felt his seed pouring out of me, making me gag—but he left me tied up when he left the room to go to sleep. It was my first night with the shackles. I had managed to throw a well-placed punch at him earlier that evening, watching with grim satisfaction when two of his teeth went flying out of his mouth.

I was naked and tied to the bed, tears spilling from my eyes, blood seeping from the wounds in my wrists where I had fought desperately to free myself.

The Admiral's Wife entered, opening the door and moving to the side of the bed. She was several years older than me; her hair showing the first signs of graying. But she was still attractive; perhaps not traditionally beautiful, but still attractive. She didn't speak, didn't say anything. She stood there, regarding me with that same cold look my mother had when she watched the Admiral rape me, when she helped him.

Please, I begged. I don't know if I wanted her free me or kill me.

She said nothing. She just towered over me, arms crossed, face cold. I think she was analyzing me, sizing me up. Eventually, she sneered, her lip curling upwards, and left the room, leaving me tied.

* * *

Suddenly, a hand wraps around my throat, fingers digging into my tender flesh. I cry out and am lifted to my feet. I release the photograph and it flutters to the ground. I am pressed against someone's—a man—hard, warm chest and he breathes into my ear.

"What are you doing, Cadet?"

Commander Spock. His voice is intense. He sounds angry, not his usual stoical manner. How did I not hear his arrival? How did I lose track of time?

I'm too scared to say anything. I gasp, opening and closing my mouth.

He spins me around and slams me into the nearest wall. My cry dies before it reached my lips, the air whooshing from my lungs, and I grab his arm, my nails digging into his sleeve, pushing desperately. He leans in closer, his weight pressing against my neck. I gulp.

"Cadet Uhura, I asked you a question. Do not make me repeat myself."

I tighten my grip on his arm, my heart racing. Gone is the gentle Vulcan from this morning. In his place is the cold murderous bastard... My eyes slide close and I gag. His grip is so tight.

He loosens that grip slightly.

I inhale air desperately. "I...I didn't—"

He raises his free hand and slaps me hard across the face. My head snaps to the side and I scream, the pain pulsing.

He shakes me slightly. "Do not lie to me, Cadet. I allowed you free reign of my living quarters with the belief that you would obey. Perhaps I should have bound you to the bed?"

Tears flood my eyes. "Please, sir. Please, don't." I cannot bear the thought of being tied to a bed once again. My eyes close. I am close to crying. I don't want to do that in front of him. Not again.

"What were you doing?" He demands an answer. But I don't know what answer to give. So I remain silent, my hands wrapped around his outstretched arm.

He pulls me away from the wall and slams me onto the desk, my back arched greatly and my feet scrambling to find some purchase on the floor to lessen the pressure on my throat. The computer rattles beside my head, precariously close to the edge, and the PADDs scatter to the floor. The Commander's grip on my throat does not lessen—it tightens once again, leaving me struggling for adequate air—and he brings his free hand to the sash on my robe and deftly unties it, exposing my naked flesh to his gaze. He runs a hand across my body, across my breasts, my stomach, before settling between my legs. His movements down there would have been so arousing if I wasn't so terrified.

I shiver, gripping the hand around my throat desperately. I can't push him off; he's too strong.

He removes his hand from between my legs and a small relief rushes through me, though I am not out danger yet.

I hear the sound of a zipper being undone.

No! I renew my struggles, pushing desperately at the hand around my throat. I manage to cry out, begging that he not do this. My feet push desperately at him; I try to push him away with my legs. But he's so strong. Tears fall from eyes and I don't care. I need to get away from him.

He hovers over me, cock poised at my entrance. I can barely see his face through the tears streaming down my cheeks. He freezes—I swear he freezes—his movements, positioned above me, ready to thrust into my dry core. My eyes close, rolling up into my sockets and I try desperately to prepare myself mentally for his invasion. I can't fight him. I'm too weak. He's too strong.

He releases my throat—I take huge gulps of air, sobbing—and leans in extremely close, resting his forehead against mine. His hot breath permeates into my skin. "Nyota, do not make me regret the leeway I have given you."

He stands, removing his body from mine, and I slide off the desk, crumbling into a sobbing mess at his feet. I wrap my arms around my legs, tears streaming down my face unchecked. I cry in fear, anger, frustration...and gratefulness. I am grateful because he did not do what he was threatening to do.

He stands above me. I don't know what he's doing because I refuse to look at him. I hear the sound of a zipper; he's zipped his pants. And then he walks away, leaving me there to sob, naked and surrounded by the PADDs I had removed from his desk.

I don't know how long I sit here, crying. But I become aware of the smell of incense permeating the room. It lingers. Silence lingers, punctuated by my cries. I wanted to believe that he was different. In fact, after last night and this morning, I **did** think that. But that illusion has just been so spectacularly shattered. I felt safe last night. Now, I don't know what I should feel.

I want out of here.

I want to run away.

I don't think I'm strong enough for this. I don't think I'm as tough as Robau told me I was.

I become aware of his presence once more, listening to his feet pad across the carpet. He kneels before me and I open my eyes to look at him. He's no longer wearing his uniform but a long robe. He reaches out to touch me. I cringe from his hand, backing away as quickly as I can, backing into his desk. I don't want him to touch me.

"No." My voice is a whisper. A whimper.

"I do not intend to harm you."

He has told me that before.

I want to roll my eyes. I want to call him out on his bullshit. I want to scream at him until my throat is raw. I want to beat him, scratch him until he bleeds green. I want to fuck him the way he's fucked me. I want to make him scream. I want to make that Vulcan façade falter. I do none of these.

He reaches out once more and lays a hand across my bruised cheek. I feel calmness enter my body, emanating from his touch. I don't fight it. I don't want to. I vaguely become aware that he is the source for this feeling. And even though he is violating what I had believed to be a most sacred rule for those who follow Surak—no telepathic connection without expressed permission—I don't fight it. I don't know if I could. My sobbing ebbs and I slowly open my eyes to look at him.

He seems calm. The violence that was emanating from him seems to have fled. I am grateful. He pulls me into his arms, wrapping his arms around my back, around my legs, and lifts me, holding me in his arms. He carries me into the bathroom, setting me gently on the counter. I watch him warily, wrapping my arms around my waist. He turns the shower on, letting the water cascade.

I eye the falling water with something akin to desire. I so desire to be clean, to rid myself of everything.

The Commander reaches for me and I come, sliding off the counter and moving toward him. He takes my hand in his and leads me to the stall. I enter and he follows, shedding his own robe on the way. He holds me under the cascading water, his arms wrapped gently around my waist. I close my eyes and lift my head up, letting the water fall over my face, washing my tears away. He runs his hands across my hair and I open my eyes, looking at him.

He is so different from the monster earlier. I am wary. I allowed myself to let my guard down after last night and paid for it greatly. How long can I expect to be safe before he attacks me again? I want to hate him.

He suddenly jerks his hand from me, like he was burned, and I jump, surprised at his quick movement.

"I apologize," he whispers. "You are within your rights to hate me."

I gasp. He's read my mind again.

He says nothing further but reaches for the shampoo and pours some into his hand. He washes my hair, massaging my scalp. My eyes close and I let myself get carried away by the relaxing feeling on his hands on me, this time gently. Next, he washes my body, running his soapy hands all over me. Again, I let him.

When he kisses me, I let him. He drops his lips to the top of my head, my forehead. It's like he's trying to show me something new, something more. Fresh tears sting my eyes.

I'm too tired to fight them. God, I'm tired. I'm too tired to fight him. I want him. I need him. How could I have come to depend on him so quickly?

He brings his hands up to cup my face, running his thumbs across my cheeks, brushing away my tears. He doesn't speak and the change in his behavior is so jarring, so unbelievable.

I let myself imagine...I let myself **believe** it's something more as he peppers my face with kisses, under the cascading water.


	7. The Miasma of Confusion and Despair

The silence is deafening.

That phrase is so oxymoronic. Counterintuitive. Bizarre. It doesn't make any sense when you think about it. It's the exact opposite. Screams, cries, the sound of your spirit breaking...now those are deafening. Silence shouldn't be deafening. Silence isn't deafening. But it is. Oh, isn't it so.

I am curled in the corner of the sofa in the middle of the Commander's living area. I am covered once more, the robe wrapped securely around my waist. My knees are to my chest, my toes digging into the soft material—suede, I think—of the upholstery. My hair, now dry, hangs in waves in front of my face. I bring a shaky hand up to brush it back behind my ear. I clutch a PADD in my other hand and I try desperately to focus on it. It is the PADD containing my class assignments. I stuffed it in the duffle bag last night before I came to the Commander's place. He brought it with him when he returned from his meeting. Before he attempted...taunted me with the possibility of rape. I ignore the voice in my head that tells me he's already raped me—I wanted it—more than once. He was so cruel, much more so than he was the night he caught me. I am terrified of him. I am aroused by him. He reminded me of the innate danger of being involved with him, of being here in a place filled with men. Men whom were raised to believe they could do the things he threatened without repercussions. Men who probably wouldn't think twice. I already know my roommate wouldn't. I've seen that. I've run from that. God, I'm such a coward.

It is silent in this place, suffocating. I feel my heart racing in my chest and I struggle to concentrate.

He's across the room, seated at his desk and working on something on his computer. The scattered PADDs have been returned to the drawer of his desk. He hasn't said anything to me since he held me in his shower. Afterwards, he turned the water off and stepped out. He dried me off then himself. I didn't say anything to him; I didn't look at him. I couldn't. He dressed himself in his long robes and whispered to me to remain where I was and left the bathroom. I did as he said; I was too terrified of disobeying. Especially after what he did earlier. He returned quickly with my robe, draping it over my shoulders. I said nothing when I tied the sash tightly around my waist. What could I possibly say?

And now we sit in silence, the deafening silence. I stare at the words on the PADD in my lap but not really seeing them, running a hand through my hair. I rest my elbow against the armrest of the sofa and bring my hand to my forehead, pressing the heel of my hand against my head. I can feel his eyes upon me. My eyes dart across the room.

He's staring at me, stoic, blank. I can't read him and that terrifies me. I made that mistake last night and I almost paid for it dearly. I was foolish. I drop my gaze back to my PADD and try to concentrate once again. But it's impossible.

He stands—I hear the quiet squeak of the leather of his chair giving—and pads across the room. I don't let myself see where he's going. I force my eyes to remain on my PADD. The cushion of the sofa suddenly gives under his weight when he sits next to me.

I still don't look at him. My head still remains downward, subservient. Because that's safe. Defiance is dangerous. Independence is fatal. I've learned this. And I let myself forget. My years with Robau and his people and my years at the Academy allowed me to forget. I allowed myself to believe I was safe. Spock has given me that brutal wake up call.

I wish he didn't.

He reaches across and takes my hand. His movements are slow, like one's motions toward a frightened animal. And maybe they should be. I am frightened. Confused.

Slowly, the Commander turns my hand over, palm facing upward, and skims a thumb across the heel of my hand, the underside of my wrist. Across the slightly raised, slightly smooth marks marring my flesh.

What is he doing?

"You have endured extensive scarring to your wrist." His voice cuts through the silence like a knife.

I jerk my hand away, bringing it close to my chest. Protecting it. No. I don't want to talk about it. So I say nothing. I don't look at him.

"Nyota?"

I shake my head. I will not fall for his act again. I will not let myself. I will **not**.

He isn't perturbed by my silence and reaches out for me again, brushing the hair out of my face; it fell when I shook my head. I want to scream at him. I want him to leave me alone.

I want out of here.

But danger resides outside these walls as well. Seems I'm fucked either way.

He repeats my name, his voice soft.

I still refuse to look at him. The memories of his attack are still fresh. They still burn. I still ache. I want to believe the shower meant something, but I know it doesn't. I didn't. I don't. I don't mean anything to him. I don't understand why he's protecting me, or so he says. What does he get from it? Last night he claimed that he did not think he could deprive Starfleet of a valuable asset. That sounds like such crap. No one cares about protecting valuable assets, valuable officers for Starfleet. Everyone only cares about himself in this god-forsaken place. No, I don't buy Spock's statement at all.

They say Vulcans can't lie.

I don't think they've met this one.

My throat aches. It hurts worse than it did last night. I guess that's what happens when a Vulcan grips your throat with a nearly crushing hold. The difference is that this time, he hasn't done anything to fix it. He was so quick to action last night and that was tame comparably. Now, he acts like he doesn't see it. He acts like he doesn't see the painful bruises I know are there. He acts like he doesn't care. I don't know what to make of it. He probably doesn't care. Last night was probably only done to get me to let my guard down. And I most certainly did. Maybe today, he wants to remind me that he's the one in charge. That I am the lesser. That I deserved that which I received. I fight the urge to rub my neck, to soothe my throat. I don't want to look weak in front of him. But that's too late, I suppose. I've already cried in front of him. Sobbed, even. I've already shown him how weak I am.

I curse the burning of tears in the backs of my eyes.

I'm so tired of crying.

I wonder how dark the bruises are.

He shifts on the couch. I feel him. I shiver.

"Nyota."

Why, God, why does he have to say my name like that? Why does he have to sound so quiet, so...I don't know. I don't know what it sounds like. No...I know. It sounds like kindness. Something I've only heard from Robau. Something I've heard so infrequently in this world...it's unsettling.

I don't want to deal with it.

Not from him.

Especially not from him.

He takes the PADD from my lap, setting it on the coffee table in front of us, and I have no choice. I have no choice but to look at him.

"Please, look at me." The words, softly spoken, are not an order. They're a request.

I do so slowly and with great trepidation. I have no idea what to expect from him.

He leans toward me, cupping my face with one hand, and kisses me. I let him. He wraps his arm around my waist and pulls me close. And I let him. He drops kisses along my throat down to my clavicle. He brings a hand up and cups my breast, massaging me through the thin robe.

I don't...I don't want this. I thought I did.

He unties the sash and exposing my body, and places his hands on me, cupping my breasts. I panic. My heart rate increases and I hyperventilate. My hands shake and I push at his hands.

"No." My voice is a whisper. I don't want him to touch me.

His hands leave my breasts to my face and he presses his fingers against my cheeks and temples. His eyes close and he takes a deep breath.

"Please." I still can't manage more than a quiet voice. I am shaking all over. I feel an intrusion in my head. He's in me again.

Suddenly he pulls away, dropping his hands from me and I scramble back on the sofa, pulling the robe closed that he can't see my body.

"Not again. Please." I beg. I must. I turn away from him, wrapping my arms around my knees and bringing them closer to my chest. I wait for the punishment I am sure is coming.

He shifts on the sofa again, leaning back into the cushions. I think I hear a soft sigh. It's such a human behavior—the sigh, the relaxing pose—that it throws me and I can't stop my eyes from looking at him once again. He meets my gaze with a stoic one of his own.

He doesn't punish me. Why?

"Your wrist. How was it injured?"

Why does he want to know? Does it matter? Does it really matter to him? Is he really concerned that I tried to end my suffering one night long ago when I thought the Admiral was gone? Does he really care that I dug into my wrist, tore into it, ignoring the pain, ignoring the tears, with the blunt edge of a butter knife trying desperately to bleed? Does he care that what isn't from that is from the harsh leather bindings the Admiral preferred? Does he care that those bindings tore into my wrists when I tried futilely to escape the Admiral, crying desperately, wishing for some kind of hero to rush in and save me? Save me from my reality.

I shrug. I have to say something. "It doesn't matter, does it? It's not like it was the important parts." The important parts like my pussy, my mouth. Well, my mouth only when it's not talking. Men are only interested in those parts. "It's in the past, in any case."

I say nothing further and we both lapse into silence once more. I think he realizes that I don't want to talk. Idly, I realize that I can't stay in these quarters forever. Eventually I will have to venture from the walls, return to class and to my dorm. I only fear Kirk. I tremble.

He tries speaking again, whispering my name.

I shake my head again.

Silence.

He rises to his feet, the cushion shifting beneath his movements, and returns to his desk. I thought he was about to return to work, but he doesn't. He doesn't sit down again. Instead, he opens that drawer—I curse that drawer—and retrieves something from it. I gasp.

It's that photograph.

He returns to the sofa, sitting beside me closer than before. Our shoulders graze one another's. What is he going to say now?

"It has been five years, ten months and twenty-one days since I last afforded this photograph a look."

I remain silent.

"I have even willed myself to forget its existence. I did not have the luxury of having my mother for long, but I still remember her vividly. I remember that she was a happy woman who loved her husband, her son. I remember that she was a strong woman. My father informed me of her great strength when I grew older and found him, reuniting with my past. She had been chosen to live the life of a concubine, unwilling but unable to deny. I do not know the details of her escape, but my father told me it took great courage, great ingenuity for her to do so. I imagine she has a lot in common with you."

Except she's dead. Except she got caught and was executed. I don't say this. How could I? He may be cruel, but I am not. I don't think I am. Or maybe I am. "No, she doesn't." I don't know why I'm talking. "She's dead." And I'm not courageous. Not like he thinks. I'm scared. Running away, hiding. Falling into the controlling grasp of another man.

He takes a deep breath. I think I've upset him. Good. I don't care.

"I apologize for my deplorable behavior upon my return to my quarters."

I look away. I'm through with speaking. I fear that if I open my mouth, I will not be able to stop. That I will say things I will regret. Things that will get me punished. Yes, it is wiser to stay silent. What can I say anyway? I certainly don't forgive him. I don't.

I don't.

Except maybe I do.

We lapse into silence once more.

He's sorry. He is apologetic. **Sorry**. I don't believe him. I think he's full of shit. He's **so** sorry. He's manipulated my body, my mind. He's terrorized me. He's raped me. My body. My mind. His body, his mind. They belong to him, don't they? He told Captain Pike that much last night. Told him I was his property.

And he's sorry. He's always sorry. Every time... **every** God damn time, he's sorry.

And I let him. I let him use me. Abuse me. Fuck me.

I want it.

This room is stifling. And I want to cry. I want to scream.

Finally, I speak. I can't take that silence anymore. I can't take any of it anymore. "Can I leave now?" Not 'may I,' but 'can I.' Will he allow me to leave? I don't think I can stay in here anymore. I don't want to go to the dorm, but the thought, the very idea of remaining in this place with him, with his awkward attempts at conversations, at niceties...it's too much.

"I will not stop you, should you attempt to leave."

I nod, taking that as permission, and get to my feet quickly, keeping hold of my PADD. I don't look at him, don't think about him and walk across the room. I grab my duffle bag he placed on the small table next to the door, tossing the PADD in it, and rush to the bathroom. I wish the door was manual and not automatic, because I am overcome with the desire to slam it shut behind me. Instead, I must settle with the quiet click of the lock when I engage it. I have no idea if it will keep him out if he wants in, but it affords me a little bit of safety.

With the door closed behind me, I set the duffle bag on the counter and look at the mirror, wincing at my battered reflection. I drop my gaze and move quickly, efficiently. I want to be out of here before he changes his mind. I don't know what I'll do if he changes his mind. Break, probably. I've shamed myself enough today and yesterday.

This isn't worth it.

The robe is gone, thrown across the room. I don't know where it landed; I don't care. I don't look at myself in the mirror and, instead, tear into the duffle. I pull out my cadet's uniform and the long piece of linen I use.

In a matter of seconds, the linen is wrapped around my chest, pressing down my breasts, and I dress in the uniform. The wig is last. I jab myself several times with the barrettes, my hands unsteady, and I wince. But I don't let myself stop.

He's letting me go.

I need to.

I'm ready quickly and I leave the bathroom, my duffle slung over my shoulder.

He's still in the living area when I get out of the bathroom. Of course, he is. Why wouldn't he be? Except now he stands upon my arrival, clasping his hands behind his back. He takes a step forward.

I stop in my steps. No, please, no. You don't get to change your mind. I want to scream this at him. I do not.

"While I will not stop you, I do not believe it is in your best interests to leave."

I successfully manage to stop rolling my eyes just in time. That would imply defiance, wouldn't it? "I don't care." My voice is a mutter, a jumbling of words, as I am too intent in making my escape to be bothered to properly respond. I move to the front door, my hand on the panel to open it.

"Have you considered the dangers of residing with Cadet Kirk?"

I freeze. Kirk. Somehow, some way, I'd forgotten about him. About his threat. It might have been somewhere between Spock's violent attack on me and the subtle violation in the shower. I don't know. God...how did I forget?

I know he's standing behind me, waiting. I know he's waiting for something. Probably waiting for me to turn around and say, you're right and I was wrong. I should stay here.

A shudder rushes down my spine.

I open the door and rush out.

I don't look back.

I ignore the looks of the officers that I pass-there are only two-and rush out of the apartment complex.

I don't think. If I think I'll just explode. I just walk. Walking is safe. Walking is good. I don't stop walking. I don't stop until I walk off the campus. I only stop once I am several blocks away. I only stop once the sun starts to set and I realize that I am heading for the place once more. The place where I meet with Gaila.

Gaila.

My stop is sudden and I drop into the nearest bench. My hands dig around my bag and I pull out my personal communicator and connect it with Gaila's.

I need to see her.

Beep.

I need to tell her about my connection. I shiver.

Beep.

I need to fall apart. I falter.

Beep.

She answers finally, her voice groggy and gravelly on the other end. I tell her that I need to speak to her.

Where, her voice, distorted slightly, asks through the device. She sounds concerned. I hope that's what concern sounds like. I need her concern.

I tell her. I tell her to meet at our usual meeting place. I ignore the wavering in my voice.

She agrees and I swiftly disconnect the call.

* * *

Oh, God. Where is she? Doesn't she understand I need to speak with her? That I need her?

I pace the length of this tiny disgusting room, this room that reeks of sex; it's so overwhelming. My hands clench at my sides. My fingers rub nervously and worriedly.

Where is she?

I run my hands through my hair, no doubt messing up the wig. I don't care. I want out of here. I need to talk to her. Where is she?

What is he doing to me? I sob then catch myself.

The door opens and Gaila slips in. "What do you need to talk to me about?" She sounds unconcerned, normal.

"I...I can't do this anymore, Gaila. I want out."

Gaila' eyes are wide and she approaches me slowly. "Look at you. You're shaking like a leaf." She reaches out and takes me by the shoulders. Her touch is gentle.

But I can't. I can't deal with touching. I pull away from her. My hands grasp my wig and I tear it off, throwing it away from me; I don't know where. I don't care. Everyone has a breaking point. I think I've found mine. I tangle my hands in my hair. The familiar burn of tears in the back of my eyes.

Gaila gasps and approaches me again. "Oh, my Goddess! What the hell happened to you?" She places her hands on my shoulders and leans in, looking at my neck, my cheek. "Who did this to you?"

I break.


	8. The Sacrifices of the Willing Lamb

I hover between the waking world and the dreaming world, my face buried in the pillow, my legs curled up to my chest, my hands tucked beneath my chin. The pillow and mattress reek, smelling of the body odors and sexual secretions of countless men and women. But I don't care. Right now, it's a safe place. My haven.

After I told Gaila what happened, after I sobbed in her arms, I slowly drifted to sleep. I don't know how long I have slept. I have no idea what time it is. Is it still Saturday? Or is it Sunday? The room lacks windows. I can't see outside. I can't determine where the sun is.

The mattress shifts and Gaila sits on the edge of the bed beside me, running her hand through my hair gently. She's trying to comfort me. I'm grateful for it. Her touch is soothing. I've missed her.

She was upset when I told her what happened. She felt guilty—I could tell—because she told me to get close. I guess she didn't expect it to break me. I'm just glad she's found it in herself to place her recent contention toward me behind her. I don't need that right now. I can't deal with that.

My eyes open slightly.

"Hey." Her voice is a whisper.

I look at her, my head remaining on the pillow. She smiles at me. It's not the same bright smile I'm used to seeing from her. It's shaky. I reach for her hand, pulling it away from my hair, and bring it to my lips. I kiss her palm and cling to her hand, squeezing tight.

"I'll be okay," I whisper.

"I know you will, sweetie. You're strong." She leans down and kisses me on the forehead and then on the lips. It's chaste. Quick. Comforting. Our times together always started this way, before I came to the Academy and we grew comfortable with one another. A chaste kiss turns into something more. It's often Gaila who initiates, Gaila who encourages and teaches. But this time, she holds herself back; she knows now is not the time. And I am grateful for that.

You're strong, she says. No. I can't be. I'm not. If I was strong, I would have been able to fight him. Stop him. I want to scream at her, tell her she's wrong. That she doesn't know what she's talking about.

But there's a quiet knock on the sealed door. Gaila sits up, rolling her eyes, and looks at the beaten door. "Go away!"

"Gaila." The masculine voice is gruff, commanding.

Gaila lets out a small shriek—I wince, bringing my hand to my forehead; I have a slight headache—and jumps off the bed, releasing my hand. She bounces to the door and presses the buttons on the panel next to it. It unlocks with a quiet hiss and slides open.

On the other side stands a man wearing a distinguished suit. Bald. Elegant. Much older than either Gaila or me but still quiet handsome. Extremely fit and healthy for his age. I was unaware that Gaila called him. It must have been when I was asleep.

He smiles at Gaila—and she at him, I assume; her back is to me, but she always smiles at him—and wraps his arms around her waist. He pulls her to him and kisses her deeply. Gaila moans loudly and he runs his hands from her waist to her buttocks, squeezing and lifting her up.

I close my eyes. I can't watch them. I can never watch them.

"Ny?"

I nod, pressing my face deeper into the pillow, to let her know that I heard her.

"I'll - We'll be right back. Will you be okay?"

I nod again.

The door slides closed again.

They're going to have sex. I know they are. They always do.

I'm just glad that, for once, they took it elsewhere.

And I hear them. They're loud. He's got her against the wall next to the door; modesty and privacy are always the least of their concerns. I can hear their thumps, their sighs and their moans. It's rather sickening, honestly.

Afterwards, I imagine they'll talk about me.

What's going on, he'll ask. He'll be upset that he was interrupted doing...whatever it is that he does when he's alone to take care of the crazy spy.

She's folding. Breaking under the pressure, Gaila will say.

Robau will want to know why I'm so weak. Why is she not able to carry out her duties? Why is she so weak? Do we need to replace her? Is she worth it? He'll ask Gaila all of this. They'll do this while getting dressed, while he's tucking his prick back in his pants, she's pulling her pants back on. Nonchalant.

Gaila will probably shrug; she never argues, never contradicts him. His word is supreme. And he'll decide he needs to speak to me privately. She'll agree.

He'll probably come in here, demand answers, tell me he's disappointed. He'll tell me it's time for my punishment.

I hear Gaila screaming, crying out, and I know they're just about done.

Thank God.

I hear soft murmurs and I know they're talking about me. I think the conversation goes exactly as I imagined it in my head.

Maybe. Maybe not. How the hell am I supposed to know?

Within moments, the door slides open and Robau enters. Alone. Just as I imagined he would. He stands in the entrance, hands held loosely at his sides, and I grow uncomfortable under his penetrating gaze.

I sit up slowly, backing up on the small bed until my back hits the wall, and I bring my knees to my chest. I drop my eyes from his. Is he mad at me? Is he going to yell at me? He may be the kindest man I've ever met, but I have seen him with some of the other girls. I've seen his temper.

He may be angry.

I've never been on the wrong side of his ire. And I never want to be. But I may be now. He sent me in, expecting to finally find a hole, a crack in the Empire's armor, defenses. He expected to find some way to bring them down from the inside. I've failed him on that. I've been there for three years and I haven't made any forward progress. I may have earned the grudging respect of the professors, and some students, but I haven't made any leeway. I haven't found any cracks. Except my own.

And now, the Commander. He's becoming my new Admiral. And I'm not entirely sure I'm opposed to that. I should be, especially after his attack. I should be absolutely horrified. I should be screaming, crying, begging otherwise. But the idea isn't as sickening as it should be.

I think I'm sick. Sick with madness. That's what they used to say, right? Sick with this twisted desire for him to use my body, to fuck me; because, despite the pain, the fear, there is that swirling pleasure. Oh, that pleasure. That ecstasy. I think I would let him hurt me again, if only so that I could feel that ecstasy once more.

Maybe I'm not so different from the girls who have never fought this life, who give into their...masters, who cry out for them to make it hurt just a little bit more. I **am** sick. Twisted.

I think I'm more scared of myself than I am of the Commander. I think I'm terrified of how quickly I forgave his attack. The moment I left his quarters, the haven, I was terrified. I wanted to go back. I think it was then that I forgave him. I think it was then that I was ached for his touch again.

But why would I forgive him so quickly?

Robau steps forward, entering the room completely, and the door slides closed behind him. He moves to the bed and sits down on the opposite side, the frame creaking under his weight.

"Nyota."

"I'm sorry." I speak before I can stop myself. I don't want to face his wrath. "I didn't mean for it happen. I didn't mean to be so weak. I didn't want to fail you. But-" I break off, sobbing.

Robau moves closer to me, leaning against the wall beside me, the mattress shifting. "Hush, child." He wraps his arms around me and I go to him willingly, leaning into him and resting my head against his shoulder. My tears flow, staining his jacket.

I wrap my arms around his waist tightly.

"I know, Nyota. Gaila told me of your sufferings. They have been great."

He lets me cry. He lets me release everything. And when I finally quiet, when my sobs have softened to mere hiccups, he speaks again.

"Who was this man? Your roommate?" I've told Gaila of my concerns about Kirk. The moment I found out who I would be forced to room with my final year, I told Gaila. I was scared. I was scared I'd end up dead. And I needed to tell someone, even if that someone would not be able to do anything about it. And she couldn't. She didn't. I shouldn't be surprised that she told Robau—I know she tells him everything—but I am.

I shake my head; Kirk may terrify me, taunt me, but he hasn't hurt me. Yet. "Commander Spock."

He inhales sharply. His grasp around my waist tightens somewhat and I wince slightly.

"I'm sorry. He found me out and my cover was blown and he-" I can't finish.

Robau stands, wrenching free from my grasp. Tears fall from my eyes again. He's angry. I wrap my arms around my knees, holding them tightly to my chest, and watch him.

"I screwed up. I'm sorry." But these years deep undercover, they're starting to take their toll. It's not just the incidents with Commander Spock. I was diligent for most of my time there, never getting caught. I grew complacent in that security. I allowed myself to grow complacent. And then, I got caught. And paid the price. "It's all my fault."

He paces the room, back and forth, his hands twitching behind his back. I watch with increasing trepidation.

He glances at me. " **Commander** Spock, you say?"

I nod. I can't speak. I don't know the words.

He looks away from me and continues pacing, lapsing into silence. I grow nervous. What is he thinking?

Then:

"This Commander Spock. Is he the Vulcan?"

I nod. "Yeah."

He nods as well, mumbling something under his breath. I'm not entirely sure what he said, but it sounded like, 'we can use this.'

He continues pacing, continues muttering to himself. He's coming up with something. I can tell. He's always thinking, always processing. Always coming up with plans. He's a genius, I think. My savior.

He stops pacing and looks at me. "Nyota, I need you to tell me exactly what has happened between you and the Commander. Gaila has told me, this is true, but I'd like to hear it from you."

I nod, jerking my head up and down. And I tell him. I tell him of the Commander's unexpected arrival in the xenolinguistics building after curfew. I tell him of the Commander's blackmail; of how he forced me to have sex with him; of the unwanted pleasure he gave me. I told him of the Commander's order to visit his quarters, where he proceeded to fuck me roughly. And I told him of the Vulcan's sudden change in behavior after that. How he comforted me, told me of his own mother—Robau seemed most interested in this sudden change—and I told him of how Commander Spock interrupted my snooping—that's what it was, no point in denying it—and his sudden change, his extreme violence. His jarring one-eighty.

I don't tell him of how quickly I have grown to desire the Commander's touch. How much I want him in me this very moment. How much I want him above me, thrusting into me, drawing out the pleasure. I can feel myself growing wet and I shift in my seat, trying to alleviate the sudden arousal I feel. God, I need help. I fought him only yesterday—I didn't want it; I didn't want to fall back into that life—and now I can't wait to get under him and let him pound me into the mattress.

Robau listens to everything, nodding his head to encourage me to continue, speaking only when necessary. When I finish, he sits on the bed next to me once more and inhales deeply, slowly. "I must apologize to you, Nyota."

"Why?" He hasn't done anything wrong. It's all my fault.

"I sent you in, unprepared. You were not ready for a mission of this caliber. Perhaps Gaila was correct. Perhaps she would have been much more suited for this. Despite her pheromones."

Anger flushes through me. It's irrational, unbecoming; he only wants to keep me safe. I know this on an intellectual level, but my heart thinks differently. He thinks I'm too weak. Too delicate. "But you gave this to me."

He nods. "I did." He turns on the mattress and reaches for my hands. "You are strong, Nyota. Despite the hell of your previous life, you survived. You thrived when many women would give up and stop fighting. You are a rare breed of woman, Nyota." Tears well in my eyes. "However, you were not built for such hardness. You are not hard enough to deal with the sacrifices, the needs of the mission."

I shake my head. I don't like where this is going. "Sir. I promise. I can do better. I just..."

He presses a finger to my lips, silencing me. "You are not a hard creature, Nyota. You are not mentally prepared for this. It would be stupid to deny this."

I shake my head again.

"And if I had the time, I would pull you out of there and train you properly before sending you out in the field again." He sighed and releases my hands. "But I do not. We do not. It would take too much time. It would take considerable time to prepare someone else for this, to implant them. And we have already taken too long. You have taken too long."

"But—"

"Three years, Nyota. You have been at that Academy for three years. And you have nothing to show for it, except for a stellar academic record."

My eyes drop to my hands, placed in my lap and shaking fiercely. I'm ashamed. "I'm sorry." My voice is a quiet whisper. But a part of me is angry. How much does he expect from someone who is only a cadet? I'm not privy to vital information the way commanding officers are.

"If I didn't know any better, Nyota, I would think that you weren't really trying. That you were enjoying your time there, amongst all those men."

Tears blur my vision again. But for an entirely different reason. He's accusing me of fucking those men, isn't he? "I'm not—"

"But I know better, don't I?"

I nod, frantically, desperate to assuage him. I'm not sure where this is going.

"If I could, I would take you out. But I can't, Nyota. And so, I must ask for a sacrifice."

Okay. I really, really don't like where this is going. I grow tense, ready to spring if I need to.

"I need you to go back. You've been compromised, but we can use this to our advantage."

"What are you saying?" I speak the words slowly, processing everything.

"You are going to return to the Academy, and you are going to return to Commander Spock. You are going to let yourself get close to him. You are going to let him do what he wants to you. You are to earn his trust. And get him to talk, tell you things."

I shake my head. I can't go back. I'm sick. I need to get away from him. I don't want to fall down the spiraling rabbit hole any further. "But, sir—"

He stands, hands held tightly behind his back. "No arguments, Nyota. You've screwed up. But we may be able to salvage the situation. We may be able to get what we want."

I want to scream; I want to beg. I don't want to go back to Spock. He confuses me. I confuse myself. I don't understand. He promised me. "But, sir, you told me—you **promised** me that I would never have to do that again. You promised me that I was safe with you. Why are you making me do this?"

"We are in the middle of a war, Nyota. And certain sacrifices must be made. You may decline, but I promise you this: if you refuse to do as I have asked, I will forfeit all protection. You will be on your own."

I drop my eyes, shaking fiercely. And that scares me most of all. If I don't have Spock's protection, if I don't have Robau's protection, I will surely suffer. I will be alone, struggling to survive in a world that doesn't care about me. "Yes, sir. I understand."

"Good." He approaches me and drops a kiss on the top of my head before moving to the door.

I speak before he leaves. "Did you lie to me, sir? Did you lie to me to make me comply? Or am I the sacrificial lamb heading towards her slaughter?"

He slowly turns around and stares at me. Stony. Silent. Finally: "Good evening, Nyota."

He moves to the door and it slides open with his presence. He exits and immediately Gaila reenters. She halts in the doorway, inhaling deeply. Her brows furrow and her eyes squint.

"You want to fuck him, don't you?" She enters the room fully, crossing her arms across her chest. The door slides closed.

"What are you talking about?"

"Robau. You want him, don't you?"

I shake my head slowly. "No, Gaila." I really don't.

"Don't bullshit me, Ny. I can smell your arousal all the way over here. If I stick my fingers in your pussy, they'd come back wet, wouldn't they?"

I flush all over my body; I know I do. I forgot about her enhanced sense of smell. Yes, I was aroused. But not for Robau. Never for Robau. "Gaila—"

"You are one sick puppy, you know that? You come here with your sob story, and I believed you. But you didn't mean any of it, did you? I wanted to help you. But I think you're really enjoying all this. I think you like having that Vulcan fuck you. I think you wanted to get Robau here. I think you wanted to fuck him."

I shake my head and get to my feet. "No, Gaila. That's not... I don't want Robau. I've never wanted Robau."

She snorts. "Whatever. He wants you, you know. He's told me. It's all he talks about when he's with me. He thinks you're some kind of delicate flower he has to be careful with. He thinks he has to peel back the petals slowly, one by one. God, I wonder what he'd do if I told him the truth. If I told him you enjoyed that Commander's prick in your pussy. If I told him how little it takes to get you to spread you legs."

I shake my head. "Please, don't."

She laughs, but it's a sardonic laughter. She's through with being my friend this time. I'm sure of it.

"Oh, you really are one twisted bitch. And don't worry. I won't tell him. I don't want him to know all it takes for you to spread your legs is just a little bit of pain, fear. Coercion. He's mine."

And with that, Gaila spins around on the balls of her feet and leaves the room.

When the door slides closed and I am alone once again, I fight the urge to cry. To give into my fears, my sorrows. I feel like I'm drowning, like the world is opening up and swallowing me whole. He promised me. He swore to me.

And I believed him.

And now, Gaila is furious with me. Despite her outward friendliness, she's always held contempt with me, always fearing that I would end up in Robau's bed—I've never wanted it—and now... I think I've lost the one friend I've had. When I really need her.

If she ever was my friend.

And now I must return to the Academy and await Spock's next orders. I must allow the Commander to touch my body, to fuck my body. To hurt me. And I know part of me is more than willing, more than ready.

If I don't, Robau will cast me out and I will have no choice but to return to the hell I fought so hard to escape.

I bury my face in my hands and let the tears flow.


	9. The Warning Swaying in the Breeze

My solace within the room does not last long. A loud banging tears me from my musings, my tears. It's followed by a hoarse gruff voice, demanding my exit. The bouncer. Either my time is up or the room is needed for a paying customer. Another customer. I can hear the moaning, groaning, and thumping of men throughout this whorehouse. The place is never truly quiet. You just learn to drown out those disgusting sounds. It takes time; it takes practice. And it's always so jarring when I let myself slip and I catch a moan, a cry. A scream.

This place is owned by a man, of course, and the women are his property. His property that he leases out to paying customers for however long those men are willing to pay. And, because they are assets for his business, the women are relatively safe here. The owner does not allow the paying customers to subject the women to irreparable damage. This is why so many 'free' women, women who did not belong to a man—why I did, when I first escaped—seek out these sorts of places. They are safer than the alternatives.

The proximity to the Academy was the primary reason behind Robau's decision that I meet Gaila, sometimes him, here. And we could meet in relative security and privacy. This is the sort of place where no one asks questions, no one speaks to you. No one cares that we're here, no one cares what we do while we're here. As long as we pay.

The pounding resumes against the door. I yell out, telling him to give me a second, then I slowly get up. I rub my eyes, clearing them of tears, and run my hands through the wig, making sure it's still in place. It is and I release a small sigh. I look around the room, scanning the floors. I'm looking for my duffle bag; I don't remember where I threw it when I first entered the room. I was so distraught at the time. A few more seconds of looking and I find the bag across the room, near the windows...or where the windows would be, I imagine, if this place had them. I grab it quickly and check to make sure it's still zipped. It is and I sling it over my shoulder.

I move to the door and it slides open with a hiss and I exit, steadfastly ignoring the large man on the other side. I step around him, keeping my head down, and move down the stairs. I pass open rooms with men fucking women; a couple of the rooms have women together with other women, no doubt trying to find comfort in the way Gaila taught me. One has a man and two women. Any combination you can think of, you'll find here in this god-awful place. No one pays me any mind, not that I'm surprised, and I make my way to the exit and out the door.

Into the cold harsh world beyond.

I am not overly familiar with the city of San Francisco, despite spending three, nearly four years at the Academy. I simply don't explore it. I don't let myself. I've only allowed myself to go to the campus and the whorehouse where meetings between myself and Gaila are conducted. It's too dangerous to go anywhere else. The city—any city, really—simply isn't a safe place for women. We aren't safe anywhere. We aren't safe in the cities; we aren't safe in our homes. We aren't even safe with our own families. The people we grow up believing will protect us from harm will betray that trust in an instant. In a second. And, in all honesty, we aren't even safe with other women. I think that argument. That accusation that Gaila hurled at me will attest to that. She has a good thing. She knows she has a good thing. **I** know she has a good thing. She warms the bed of a man who is unlike any other man I've met. He's kind. He treats her with respect.

Of course, he treats several other women the same way. Gaila is not his only bed warmer. She knows it and she's not happy about it. She tolerates it because the alternative is worse, but I know she wants him all to herself.

And she's threatened by the far-fetched possibility that I am encroaching on her territory. And so, she treated me harshly. Just as the Admiral's wife did nothing to help me when I was strapped to that bed, subjected to her husband's whims. She was in a relatively safe position. She didn't want to risk that position. Can't say I blame her. I've been on the other side; it's not good. Of course, I wonder now what may have become of her after I killed the Admiral. Was she lucky enough to be married off to some other man? She was still relatively young, so it's possible. But she probably wasn't young enough. No, chances are, I killed her just as surely as I did when I forced that makeshift shank into the flesh of her husband's back. Chances are, she was shipped off somewhere, wherever they ship the women the Empire has no use for. Chances are, she's just as dead as her dead husband. I should probably feel guilty about that.

But I don't.

I'm not sure what that says about me.

I don't really care. In this world, in order to survive, we can only think of ourselves. Thinking of others can get you into trouble.

If only it was that simple.

I walk the slowly darkening streets of San Francisco, my feet propelling me forward, destination in mind. I need to return to the Academy and to my dorm before it becomes too late, before curfew. I don't desire to return to see Kirk, to deal with him, but I must.

The whorehouse isn't in what one could easily call a good part of town. And, more often than not, I'm passing by couples engaged in illicit behavior, fornicating in alleyways, anywhere, really, where there is a flat surface. I pass a woman curled on a bench under a streetlight. She's exposed, her breasts displayed, but she doesn't care. Her breathing is slow, labored, and her head lulls back and forth. Next to her, a hypospray with some sort of bright green liquid. I don't know what it is—it's probably some sort of contraband from an alien planet—but I know what it does. That's how some of the women deal with their lives. Their only escape. I never did, but I remember thinking about it on more than one occasion. I remember thinking that maybe it does make things easier.

I never had to find out, though. Thankfully.

Just as I pass that drugged woman, a black hover car blocks my path. I am forced to halt my momentum. Men jump out and immediately I tense, sure they're about to attack me. But they don't. They ignore me. And go straight for the woman - the one high on that bright fluorescent green substance - and grab her. She offers little resistance, so stoned she's incoherent, and they toss her in the vehicle before leaving. Such instances are not horribly uncommon. I've seen several during my time on the streets and in the whorehouse after the Admiral. I've just always been grateful it's never me they want.

I don't really know what the men do with the women. Fuck them probably. Rape them. Or maybe they kill them. Or sell them to prospective buyers. I don't know. And I don't think I want to know.

I turn the corner and onto a street that's a little better—less fucking, less lewdness—but not by much. This is the street that will lead me to the Academy if I remain on it long enough. The street features a large long wall. The Wall, I call it; I don't know its official name. No one does. But no matter what you call it, everyone knows what you're talking about. It's a large slab of concrete, stretching the entire right side of the street, from street corner to street corner. Some ten, maybe more, feet tall. God only knows how thick the Wall is. At the main gates—the only gates that I've seen—it's guarded by Starfleet's elite, the Special Forces. They stand at attention, backs erect, arms straight at their sides. Phasers in their holsters. Dressed in their black uniforms. No one comes to this place willingly; I've seen a man, a woman, on a rare occasion be forced through that gate, screaming and crying out. But no one ever seems to come out. I don't really know what goes on in there; no one really does. Top secret, they say. I've heard whisperings; we all have. Cadets at the Academy often talk about this oft-ignored place. The Empire's dirty little secret. I've heard all sorts of things about this place. A prison for the foulest of criminals, those guilty of crimes against the Empire. A place where the Empire conducts top secret scientific experimentation on human and alien subjects. Those two are the most popular theories.

The guards pay me no mind when I pass them. I didn't expect them to. They only pay attention to anyone entering, as though anyone would want to. Beside the main gate, I see something that makes my heart and feet stop. Something that hadn't been there when I came through here earlier.

Hanging from large metal hooks that have been driven into the concrete slab, seven bodies. It has been a while since the last set were hung here; I'd almost let myself forget. Two men; five women. All nude, stripped of any remaining dignity. White bags placed over their heads, hiding their identities; hands tied behind their backs. Blood cakes their bodies, their ankles. Whatever these men, these women endured...it was not pleasant. It was not quick.

I want to look away by I can't. I want to run away from the sight, but I can't. They don't want us to. These are here a reminder, a warning. Behave; do as you're told. I am not. I am breaking the law as I stand here and stare at the bodies of these women and these men, hiding my hair beneath a wig and my breasts beneath an antiquated strip of linen. I am a cadet in Starfleet, well on my way to becoming the top of the class. And I am a woman.

If I am caught by someone else, if the Commander decides I'm not worth it and turns me in, will I end up here, hung up like meat, naked, for all to see. For all to desecrate? Will I one day end up strung up here, head hanging limply, a white bag covering my face, blood seeping?

Their faces are concealed, for which I am grateful, but I can still see the blood staining the bags, seeping through the thin fabric of the bags, creating a mockery of scarecrows, of painted dolls. If you stare long enough, if you **really** look, you can make out facial features underneath those white bags. High cheekbones, low brows, straight noses. And these bodies become less anonymous, less of a curiosity. They become real. These were real people. And the Empire sees fit to hang their corpses on the Wall for everyone to see. For everyone to ogle. I shiver. Bile rises in my throat.

When I die, I'll be one of those bodies, swaying in the light breeze. I know it. I fear it.

Close by, I hear a woman's harsh cries. I look behind me and a woman, dressed in a dirty ragged dress, stands, her hand to her mouth, tears streaming. She cries out and rushes to one of the bodies.

My daughter, my daughter, she screams. That's my daughter.

The stoic guards rush into action, drawing their phasers, and grab her. When she doesn't respond, when she escapes their grasp and runs to the hanging body of her daughter once more, they open fire.

My eyes slam shut when the phaser blasts hit her and she crumbles. And it's over. Just as quickly as it began. The men move to their post and one grabs a communicator, contacting someone from inside the Wall.

My eyes rest on the fallen body of that woman. A part of me yearns to go to her, to pay my respects. To mourn for her, because no one else will. Because someone should. She cared. She cared for her daughter. Tears burn my eyes and it's a fight to not let them fall. Not in front of these guards. Crying is a sign of weakness. And Starfleet officers are not weak.

"Move along, Cadet. Nothing more to see here."

I tear my eyes from the woman to the guards. They stare at me, hands hovering over their phasers. Ready if need be. They'll fire on me. I know they will.

They don't care.

No, they don't tell you about the harsh reality of this cruel Empire when you're a child growing up. You're brought up to believe that the Empire is good, that the Empire is right, and that the Empire cares. The Empire doesn't care. The Empire doesn't care at all. The Empire has destroyed and warped its citizens. Women are treated as sub-humans, whom men can do to as they please. Men have been conditioned to be vicious, brutal. Because that's what survives in this world, this universe.

I turn and walk away, moving swiftly down the sidewalk, away from the bodies swinging from the Wall like morbid wind chimes.

I will be like that. When I die.

* * *

I'm still shaking when I enter the dormitory. I still pant when I make my way to the turbolift and to the second floor, where my room is. I halt just outside the door. My eyes close and I struggle to get my breathing, my shaking, under control. It would not be a good idea to go in there and face Kirk if I'm not under control. He'll see it and pounce so quickly I won't be able to stop him.

And he'll take glee in it. Just as he took glee in the torment of the woman he raped when I walked in so long ago. It feels like a long time ago.

I've returned just in time; the sun is just disappearing below the horizon and the loud low bell sounds in the near distance, alerting Cadets that the curfew is upon us.

I take a deep breath and enter the room. It's surprisingly dark. I instruct the computer to activate the lighting and it floods the room in bright light.

Where is Kirk? His bed is made up and the light in the bathroom is off. I take the bag off my shoulder and set it on my desk chair. Placing my hands on my hips, I look around the room. His absence, while certainly not missed, is most unusual. **No** one misses curfew. I've never missed curfew, except the other night when the Commander caught me and fucked me. Kirk's never missed curfew. Consequences for breaking the rule—any rule—are dire. And Kirk may be an asshole, a prick, but he doesn't like getting in trouble any more than the rest of us. He wouldn't voluntarily risk it.

So, his absence is puzzling.

But, ultimately, I decide that I don't really care. If he's not here, I welcome the reprieve. I relax my stance and head for my dresser. A long relaxing shower is something I need, I decide. A shower without dealing with Kirk, with Commander Spock.

And of course, a mere second after I decide that I can enjoy the night alone, the door slides open and he enters, storming in. He's not alone. An armed security officer stands in the doorway. While normally they patrol the campus, ensuring that everyone is following the rules, the security personnel are sometimes ordered to escort Cadets, should they be out late. The man glances at me briefly, his eyes scorching and making me uncomfortable, before returning straight ahead.

Something in his gaze makes me wonder if he knows. If he **knows**. Flashes of those bodies hanging on the Wall like gutted fish dance in my mind and I feel my heartbeat grow erratic.

I tear my eyes from him and I move away, backing into my desk, and watch.

Kirk glares at me briefly before kneeling in front of his bed and reaching underneath it. He pulls out a large duffle bag and throws it on his mattress. He stomps to his dresser and closet, dragging out his clothing and throwing them in the bag.

"What's going on?" I can't resist asking. I want to know. This is unusual. And I'm curious. He may terrify me, but I can't resist asking, despite what his response could be.

He snorts and glares. "This is your fault."

My brows furrow. "What the hell are you talking about?"

He shakes his head and zips up his bag. "Which one did you scurry off to, pussy? Who did you go crying to?"

"What the fuck are you talking about?"

"I've just been told that a request for a change in roommates has been issued. And since there's no one else here, it must have come from you."

I shake my head. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Kirk snorts again and grabs the bag. "Whatever, **Ben** " He says my name like a curse. "Thanks to you, I get to spend the remainder of the semester in that old dormitory across the campus that no one ever goes to, because apparently, we don't have any other rooms closer. Thanks to you."

I shrug. I don't care. I really don't. "I'd figure you'd be glad. Get to fuck all the women you want without interruption."

He smirks at me and approaches me, stopping just short of invading my personal space. He jabs a finger in my face. "Don't test me, little cocksucker. And don't think I'm going to let this go."

I force myself to look him in the eye. Wouldn't do to cave in. Wouldn't do to look weak.

He steps away from me and towards the security officer, who remains silent. Together the two men leave the dorm and I am truly left alone.

I don't know whether to be relieved or concerned.

The next day, I'm still tired. Even though I was alone, blissfully alone, I could not sleep. The memory of those bodies swaying, the sorrow over the woman's death, the fear that Kirk would suddenly burst through the door. And now, I'm grateful when the bell sounds, signaling the end of class. I hurriedly gather my belongings and rush out the door, eager to leave Aerospace Technologies behind. I have an extended break, so I head to the xenolinguistics building.

The door opens and I halt for a brief moment. Seated at the desk Professor Veleen used, the same desk that the Commander bent me over while he pounded into me, was Commander Spock himself.

He looks up from his computer to me. Our eyes meet and linger for a long moment. Then his eyes drift from mine to my cheek, my neck. I still have faint bruises from his abuse. They don't hurt as much as they did, but I haven't gotten around to repairing them with a dermal repair kit. My uniform conceals the ones lining my neck, but not the one on my face. No one had questioned the bruise, no one had made any mention of it today. Not that I expected much from my fellow cadets.

The Commander's eyes, on the other hand, lingers on my cheek. Then, he drops his gaze, returning his attention to the computer monitor.

I should have expected him to be here, but I didn't. He's taken over Professor Veleen's job. I still fear what he has done to that elderly Andorian; I still wonder if he did anything at all. He certainly hasn't been forthcoming on the issue; not that I've pressed it. But I suppose, it's only logical that since he has taken over Veleen's job, that he take over his desk. Of course, I wonder why he doesn't just use his other desk. The one in the science department, the one he's used before this.

Of course, I'm also not naïve enough to not know that it's because he wants to watch me. Keep his eye on me. I'm sure a large part of him is quite proud of himself to use the same desk he bent me over, made me come upon over and over.

But even more surprisingly, we're actually not alone. Another student is in here, seated at one of the terminals. He's probably why Commander Spock hasn't spoken to me yet. The student looks up briefly, acknowledging me, before returning to his work.

I exhaled and enter the lab completely, allowing the door to close behind me. I walk to the terminals and sit in one of the empty working ones. The lab is silent for a while, the only sounds are the tapping on the keys as we all work.

Eventually, the other student gets up, signing off, and leaves. Just as quietly as he worked.

And I am left alone with the Commander.

My cheeks flush. My breathing increases. And my concentration falters. I try to ignore that we're alone. I try to ignore the sudden throbbing between my legs, the shaking of my hands. Once again, I remember our first night in here. The things he did to me, the pleasure he gave me. But I also remember his attack.

Aroused and terrified.

That's what I feel, alone in this room with him.

I hear him push his chair back and get to his feet. My heart races. I think he's going to come to me. I think he's going to bend me over this terminal and fuck me.

I'd let him.

I shift in my seat. And he approaches. And places his hands on either side of mine on the terminal and leans in, his breath hot against my neck.

My eyes slide close.

His lips graze the side of my neck. I moan. One hand skirts up my arm—I can feel his heat through my uniform and I shiver—and grasps my throat gently. He tilts my head and leans in closer, seizing my lips with his.

Another moan escapes me, and he takes advantage of my open mouth, slipping his tongue in.

It's a brief kiss, but it's a kiss that leaves me quivering in my chair.

He whispers into my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "I expect to see you in my quarters tonight. As soon as your final class dismisses."

I cannot argue with him. I don't want to. "Yes, sir."

He releases his grip on me and steps away. And I mourn the sudden loss of his heat.

I hear him leave the room. I close my eyes and struggle to retain some sort of professionalism, in case someone else enters.

Yes, I'd let him do anything.

Especially if it means I don't become one of those bodies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, some imagery is "borrowed" from Margaret Atwood's The Handmaid's Tale.


	10. The Fear of Desolate Isolation

I emerged from a darkened alley, pushing my ratty skirt down, brushing my tears away with shaking hands. He'd been painful. Rough. My hair hung limply over my face, but I didn't bother with it. I was twenty. Only twenty years old and I felt ancient. I felt like I have lived forever. I felt tired. My bones ached. My body ached. My heart ached.

I teetered on tall heels—I didn't care for those shoes—moving to a nearby crate placed against the tall metallic wall of a building. Gingerly, carefully, I sat down, hands holding on the edges of my skirt, desperate for some sense of decency. My lips quivered, my chin shook, and tears fell. I buried my face in my hands, letting my tears fall.

I hurt.

Behind me, I heard the man—the bastard—emerge from the alley. He was laughing and talking. I guessed he was on his communicator; I never looked him in the eye. And when he passed in front of me, he threw a pile of money at me.

It fluttered to the ground, scattering amongst the trash in the alley. I was too ashamed, too tired to reach for it.

I don't know how long I sat there on that uncomfortable crate, letting my tears streak down my dirty face. But I heard the shuffle of boots against the ground. Opening my eyes, I saw the boots stop in front of me. I squeezed my eyes closed, a few more tears escaped, and I sighed.

Where do you want it, I asked, my voice a faint whisper in the light breeze. I didn't demand payment; I had no position, no right to do so. If he deemed it acceptable, he would pay me when it was done. Not before. And certainly not if I asked.

What is your name? His voice was soft. Gentle.

My eyes widened. No one had ever asked me that before. But I said nothing. This could be a test. He could have been testing me.

He shuffled some more—I watched his feet, attempting to anticipate his next move—and he sat next to me on the crate.

I held my breath, waiting. My heart pounded in my chest. This was new. This was unexpected. I couldn't anticipate his next moves, his next requests. I was completely in the dark with this man, whose face I had not yet seen.

His hand came to a rest on my shoulder and I gasped, shocked, and tore away from his touch. I didn't know what the touch meant. I didn't know what he was going to do. I needed to be on alert.

Shh, he sounded. I don't want to hurt you.

I froze but remained silent, except for the loud puffs of air escaping my mouth.

I want to help you, he said quietly.

Like I haven't heard that before. Like I haven't fallen for that before. Like I haven't let myself believe it once, only to find myself on the end of a torturous night. I shook my head. No, I wasn't going to fall for it again.

I remained silent. And he did, too. We sat on that crate for what felt like an eternity. And I kept waiting for him to do something. I kept waiting for his impatience to show itself. I kept waiting for him to grab me and force me to do his sexual bidding.

I kept waiting.

I can stay here for as long as it takes, he said quietly, eventually. I'm in no rush.

What do you want from me, I finally asked. I couldn't keep silent anymore.

I want you to tell me your name, he said simply.

Finally, I dropped my hands in my lap and turned to look at him, to see him. He wore his face impassively, carefully. I think he was trying to make sure that I didn't feel threatened by him. I didn't understand why he cared if I was secure or not. He was bald. Older. His dark eyes penetrating.

I dropped my eyes. Nyota, I whispered. My name is Nyota.

Nyota, he repeated. It's nice to meet you, Nyota. I am called Robau.

He led me to a building, down a hallway. And on the other end of that hallway, I saw a different life. I saw hope.

It sounds clichéd, I know. But it's true. That corridor was not much different than this one I walk down now. This same corridor I walked down mere days ago. I feel a strange sense of déjà vu, walking down that same corridor, passing the same doors. Heading to Commander Spock's quarters. Except today, I appear to be a student, heading to a professor's place, to ask a question. It's not entirely unheard of, and indeed, I pass a fellow classmate—a man I recognized from Advanced Applied Tactics—on my way to the turbolift. He looks at me briefly and nods quickly, acknowledging me. I reply in kind and our interaction is complete.

I don't even know his name. And I doubt he knows mine. But it doesn't matter. I'm not here to make friends.

The ride in the turbolift to the Commander's floor is quick. The door opens and I step out. My steps begin to hesitate, my heart begins to race. I'm nervous, anxious. I don't know which one to expect tonight. Will it be the gentle Commander or will he be rough, dangerous?

I pause at his door. I'm shaking. Nerves. My nerves are starting to get to me. I don't really want to be here tonight. I really want to return to my dorm—my now peaceful and quiet dorm—and go to sleep. But the Commander has ordered me here. And therefore, I must be here. I reach out with a hand, poised above the button that would alert the Commander to my presence.

The door slides open before I can press that button. I gasp. He knows I'm here. Or he set the system to automatically detect my presence and open when I approached it.

A deep breath and I enter. The door slides closed behind me and sliding it from my shoulder, I place my bag on the floor next to the doorway. I spot him quickly. He's at his desk, posture straight, elbows on the desk's surface, hands in front of him, and the fingertips touching.

"I am uncertain whether this is the most logical option for me, Admiral." he speaks softly, eloquently.

I halt my movements. I had not expected him to be on the comm with a superior. Several scenarios run through my head at once. Was this a trick? Was he about to reveal my true identity to the man on the screen in front of him? Was he about to betray the tentative, the fragile trust I was beginning to feel for him? Why? Why was there even a trust to be broken? How could I trust him? I still remember the terror, the pain when he hit me, when he readied himself to rape me. Why do I trust him? I shouldn't.

He's still an unknown element. He's still volatile. I still don't completely understand his reasoning.

His eyes flutter towards me for the briefest of seconds before returning to the screen.

"I know you're expecting the _Enterprise_ , Commander." the Admiral—I struggle to connect a voice with a name and face, but it's difficult; however, I believe it could be Barnett—speaks with authority. His voice strong and steady.

"Indeed, sir. That was what I had been expecting. That is what has been discussed." Commander Spock takes a deep breath. "Has there been another delay?"

A sigh. "The Riverside Shipyard was hit by another rebel attack, yes. There was significant damage to the _Enterprise_ 's outer plating. It's going to take some time to repair. And to finish the rest of the ship's construction.

"I see. The attacks are escalating." He pauses. I imagine Admiral Barnett—I'm almost certain it's him—nods. The Commander continues. "Have any of the perpetrators been apprehended?"

"We were able to capture a few of them, yes."

"And their punishment?"

I grow nervous at his words. Do I know these "perpetrators"? Are they a part of Robau's movement, or are they separate? I can't imagine them being with Robau. He prefers subtlety. This raid on the shipyard is anything but. I shouldn't concern myself with them, but... At the same time, we are fighting for the same thing, right? These faceless perpetrators revile the Empire just as much as I do. Someone should care about them. Someone should pray they don't end up like those bodies I saw yesterday. Like that woman who ran for her hanging daughter and was shot dead. We should care for each other, even if we don't know one another. We are all in this together.

Barnett chuckles slightly. "That's what you will decide, should you accept my offer."

Commander Spock drops his steepled hands in his lap and leans forward slightly. "Why have I been chosen to replace Commander Samson?"

Commander Samson is a name I am completely unfamiliar with. I feel awkward, standing before the Commander as he has this conversation with an Admiral. I shouldn't be here. The Commander should have told me to leave the room as soon as I arrived.

"Your name came to me from Captain Pike. He recommended you for the position. He said this could be the thing you need to prove your undying loyalty."

The Commander's brows rise. "I was unaware that I needed to demonstrate my loyalty to the Empire."

Barnett sighs. "Christopher's concerned about you, Spock. He has been since you started spouting all this Vulcan nonsense after your stint there. He's concerned that you may be becoming too sympathetic."

Spock leans back in his chair, eying the screen. "I see."

I don't see. I'm confused. I never once guessed that Spock's loyalty was in question. He seemed very much in line with the Empire to me.

"It'll only be a temporary assignment, Commander. As soon as the _Enterprise_ is complete, you'll be assigned there, just as previously discussed."

Commander Spock is silent for several minutes, staring into the screen. I shuffle on my feet, nervous, uncomfortable. I very much want this conversation to end. I want to know what he wants me to do tonight. But I also don't.

Finally, the Commander speaks. "Very well, Admiral. I accept the offer."

"Good. And your first order of business—" Barnett trails off, letting Spock pick up the line of thought.

"Those guilty of sabotaging the _Enterprise_ yesterday?"

My eyes widen. What is the Commander talking about? What position is he talking about? How do those saboteurs factor into it?

"They are hereby charged with treason. The punishment for which is death. I shall see to it that the executions are carried out tomorrow."

I gasp.

"Very good. Very good, Commander Spock. I will inform the Board and the Emperor. It would seem that Captain Pike was correct in his recommendation. Your quick actions, your detachment are exactly what we need."

I feel my throat constricting, my heart racing. Execution? Treason? Spock was promoted to head of the Special Forces? He is now in charge of determining who was and wasn't guilty of treason? He is now the one who decides who lives and who dies? A lump grows in my throat and I swallow convulsively.

Commander Spock and the Admiral finalize their conversation and disconnect the call. The Commander pushes his chair back and looks at me.

I speak. Unable to keep it in. "Execution? Treason? Why?" My voice is shaky, betraying my nerves.

A brow slowly rises. "Are you questioning my decision, Cadet?"

I am quick to shake my head, to deny it. "I am only trying to understand how vandalizing the _Enterprise_ amounts to treason. They're probably just kids. And you're willing to execute them without even investigating."

"The perpetrators have attacked a Starfleet compound. They have jeopardized the safety of those workers. They have declared war on the Empire itself. They are enemies of the Empire."

"But, sir-" I don't know why I'm fighting this. Maybe because someone has to. He's not making sense. He hasn't even investigated their case. He hasn't looked at any evidence. When is he going to decide that my actions deserve punishment?

"That's enough, Cadet." His voice is loud, commanding.

I fall silent immediately, dropping my gaze. My throat feels dry and I realize that Commander Spock's promotion means he is literally in charge of my life. If I disobey him, if I act out, he could turn me in. He could order me to death. He could.

Would he?

The shivering returns and I take a deep quivering breath.

"Please, remove your clothing." His voice is quiet, calm, but it doesn't lack any authority.

I don't argue. I can't argue. With his new position, I am in more danger than I've ever been. He may rescind his protection at the first sign of disobedience. I can't risk it. Keeping my gaze down, I step out of my boots and set them aside. Next, I remove my sash followed by the jacket. I let them fall to the floor, not looking to see where they land.

I glance up at him through my lashes, keeping my head down. He's studying my movements intently. His eyes are dark and his mouth is open.

I unwrap the linen cloth from my chest and let it tumble to the ground at my feet. My breasts are free and my nipples tighten when the cooler air hits them. I gasp. My hands settle on the waistband of my pants. I inhale deeply, hesitating.

"Continue, Cadet." His voice has lowered. He's aroused by this. By my striptease. Perhaps I should allow myself to revel in this momentary shift in power—I control the situation; I control his arousal—but fear drives me to not delay.

Exhale. My shaking fingers clumsily undo the snap and zipper and I push the pants down, along with my underwear. I step out of them and am now completely exposed to him.

I reach up to my wig, but he interrupts me, shaking his head.

"Come here." He leans back further in his chair and his hands settle on the crotch of his pants, on the bulge I can see forming. It's a rather lewd sight. It's a rather arousing sight—the austere, stoic Vulcan coming undone by arousal, by the promise of sexual gratification.

I approach, stopping when I stand directly in front of him. He reaches out for me, his hands skimming across my body, His tongue and lips follow, slathering my breasts and my nipples with his warm saliva. His mouth dips lower, down my abdomen. I bite back a moan, struggling to maintain some control, pressing my hands against his shoulders. My arousal increases and I feel myself growing wet.

Commander Spock leans back, away from me, and he unfastens his own pants and pulls his semi-erect cock out. "On your knees," he whispers, gazing at my nude body. I feel warm.

I inhale slowly and do as he ordered, settling down in front of him on my knees. Finally, I meet his eyes for a brief moment then look down at his cock.

He leans forward and seizes my lips with his, bringing his hands to cup my face. He brushes across my bruised cheek and I wince slightly, unable to prevent my reaction.

He pulls away and looks at my face, caressing my cheek gently. He grows pensive, his eyes focusing on my bruise.

I drop my eyes, focusing blearily on his uniformed chest.

His hand skims my cheek then to my throat, where the bruises are also still vivid against my dark flesh. He leans forward once again and brings his lips to my cheek, to my throat.

Tears burn my eyes.

He whispers something against my flesh, his hot breath fluttering and goose bumps rising on my neck. " _Shiyau thol'es k'thorai ri k'ahm_ _."_ The words are so quiet I almost don't catch them. And even then, I'm not sure I hear him correctly. I think he whispers them to himself, not intending for me to hear. I understand his words. But I can't understand why he spoke them to me. Why did he mention a quote of Surak's? He whispers again. " _Ni'droi'ik nar-tor_."

I shudder and pull away. "What?"

He doesn't answer me. He just pulls away from my neck and returns his lips to mine. When he kisses me, I let him. I let him brush his tongue across my lips, slipping in my mouth to mingle with mine. He wraps his hands around the back of my neck, avoiding my injury, pulling me closer to him. I feel his burgeoning erection against my chest, brushing against my breasts, but I don't fight him. Not this time. Not like last time. My hands settle on his thighs and I massage them through the fabric of his pants. As he kisses me, he brings a hand to my wig and removes it and its barrettes, placing them on the desk. My hair cascades down my shoulders and he immediately fists his hands in it, pulling me even closer, spreading his legs further to allow me nearer.

I moan into his mouth and a hand brushes across my breasts, a thumb flicks my nipples. I gasp into his mouth. A hand reaches for mine and he places my hand against his cock. I close my shaking fingers around the pulsing length and he moans.

"I wish to feel your mouth upon me." His words brush across my lips.

I break the kiss and release a small sigh. I'm not sure I can handle this, but I will do as he asked.

I tighten my grip upon his cock slightly and bend my head down, letting my tongue glide across the head. He exhales sharply and his hands tighten their grip on my hair.

I tense, waiting for him to take control, waiting for him to thrust his whole girth into my mouth, making me gag. But he doesn't. He does nothing to take control and I release a small sigh.

I can do this.

I think.

I take him further into my mouth, letting my tongue trace the veins running his length. My actions are tentative; I know they are. I have never had a positive experience with this. The Admiral and his friends, the men in the dark alleys. They all preferred to control the whole thing, loved holding my head and thrusting into my mouth, making me choke and gag around their pricks.

I risk a look up, at his face. The Commander's head is thrown back, his eyes closed, his throat convulsing. He is enjoying the feel on my mouth upon him.

I continue my actions, moving my head up and down, taking him into my mouth. Licking. Sucking.

His hands alternate between grasping my hair and caressing my body. I moan around him.

He tenses—I know he's close—but suddenly, he pushes me away. I sit back on my haunches, looking at him. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, attempting to predict his next move.

He looks at me with hooded eyes, panting heavily. "Stand."

I do so quickly. Standing as well, he reaches for me and maneuvers me until my back faces him then positions me so that I'm bent over the top of the desk. He stands behind me and presses kisses along the length of my back. I gasp and moan at his touch. He pushes a leg between mine, spreading mine. He presses his hand between my legs and tweaks my clit with fingers, then, bending down, mouth, and I moan. He teases me, manipulates my body. I rest my head against the surface of the desk and ride the pleasure he's expertly pulling from me. He enters me with a quick thrust. I cry out, my voice sounding loudly in the silent room.

This time it's nothing like it's been previously. He moves languidly, his thrusts penetrating deep within me. He bends over me, placing his hands on either side of my head. I cannot do anything but cry out with his thrusts. He drops his head and kisses the back of my neck, my sweat-slicked back.

The Commander wraps his arm around my ribcage, underneath my breasts, and lifts me, pressing my back tightly against his chest. I lay my head against his shoulder, moaning. He pulls me with him, until he is seated in the chair again, me in his lap, twisting my body so that he can kiss me deeply, and wrapping an arm around my shoulders, holding my back to his chest. My eyes close and I relax into his movements.

He grips my hip in a hand and guides me, controlling my movements against him. He continues to move slowly within me, his thrusts languid. He breaks our kiss and rests his forehead against my temple. I open my eyes and meet his. I can't read his eyes well...I can't read **him** very well, but there's a calmness to him, a—if I dare say it—a request for forgiveness, for **something**. I say nothing. I don't know what to say. My breaths come out in loud pants. He grips my hip tightly and I cry out. Already, I am on the brink. I arch my back, pressing my back into his chest, panting loudly. He drops his gaze from mine, kissing me down my throat to my shoulder.

Soon, I am over that crest, crying out, riding the slow wave. I cling to him, my eyes squeezing close, and he tightens his grip on me. He thrusts several more times, pulling me tighter against his chest, then spills his seed within me with a low groan. I collapse against his clothed chest, whimpering, panting. And he holds me tightly.

We say nothing.


	11. The Slightest Tremble of the Wall

I open my eyes and cast my gaze around the room, not really seeing anything. Still coming down from my apex. The Commander's arms are still around me; his cock still nestled deep inside. I can feel his lips on my neck, my shoulder. His hands caress my skin, sliding across my abdomen, my chest. I arch my back, pressing my body into his hands. He moans behind me, my movement causing me to tighten around his cock. I turn my head to look at him and he seizes my mouth with his, gliding his tongue across my lips, quietly demanding entrance. I grant it, opening my mouth and moaning when his tongue caresses mine. I shift in his lap, squeezing him slightly, searching for a more comfortable position.

He breaks the kiss with a hiss, grasping his hands around my hips and dropping his head against the headrest of the chair. I can feel him growing hard once more inside me.

I am ready for him. I am ready to feel him moving within me once more. I shouldn't be. I shouldn't be so eager for this. I shouldn't be anticipating his movements once more. I shouldn't let myself relax into this situation. I shouldn't do a lot of things I'm doing.

I should probably leave. I should probably stand up, get dressed and walk out the door. I cannot spend the night here: I have class in the morning. But he places a hand on my pussy. His other hand settles on the side of my face, bringing me closer to his lips, and he tweaks the sensitive bundle of nerves between my legs and I keen, ripping my lips from his, throwing my head back against his clothed shoulder and clenching around him.

"You shall not leave yet." His voice is low, strained.

Did he read my mind again? I want to ask. I want to know. But it still scares me. It still terrifies me. So I say nothing. I press myself into his hand, a soft whimper spilling from my lips, lifting my hips slightly. I move up and down on his engorged cock. Testing the boundaries. Will he accept my control of the situation? I drop my hand to rest atop his, the one currently wringing delightful pleasure from me. I press my hand against his, trying to increase the pressure against my clit. I moan and swivel my hips, grinding against him.

He growls and his other hand leaves my hip to grab my participating hand. He twists my arm behind me, grasping my wrist tightly. The movement causes me to arch my back even further, tightening around him. We both cry out.

He moans and his hold tightens on my wrist. His hand leaves my pussy, still gripping his cock deep inside, and wraps around my waist. He regains control of the situation.

But I do not complain. I think I want him to. I think I want him to own me. I don't know what that says about me.

He shifts suddenly, jostling me in his lap and causing his cock to move even more tantalizingly within me. I whimper, throwing my head back against his uniformed shoulder and arching my back and pressing my shoulders against his chest. I twist my head to look at him. I press wet kisses along his throat, where I can reach without the collar of his uniform obstructing my progress. His uniform sticks to my sweat-slicked back; the opened zipper of his pants dig into flesh of my naked thighs, pinching.

I'm so aroused that I don't care. I don't care if he owns me. I think I might even let him hurt me. He has the power to do so, after all. I am only a woman.

He has the power. Just like Robau.

Robau.

Robau, the man who became an important person in my life. Far more important than my parents ever were. Not just my savior, but my teacher. He taught me what I needed to know. He taught me how the world - the Empire - works. That was something I was deprived of as a child. My parents kept me ignorant of the details in which the Empire worked. I knew women were...less than equal to men, that some literally belonged to men like property, but I was deprived of the knowledge that I would too would suffer that same fate. I guess I thought I would be like my mother. A wife. Trapped in a loveless marriage, perhaps, but still living in relative security.

I was wrong. So very wrong.

I don't know why I wasn't chosen to be a wife; I have no idea what criteria have to be met. But I know that my heart was broken, shattered when my parents watched idly when the Admiral took me.

I didn't think that would happen to me.

Robau taught me that it didn't have to. That it shouldn't have. He led me down that long narrow corridor that first night and showed me a world I never knew existed. Women were allowed to speak their minds with him.

Within reason.

We still needed to remember that he was in charge.

Some women forgot. And they were punished for it.

One woman that I remember—Janice was her name—she was one of the first women Robau found and saved. That's what she told me. She was proud of being one of the first. She and Gaila never got along, I remember that. They were always fighting over Robau. She forgot once that you're not supposed to be too headstrong. She lashed out, yelling at him when he ordered to do something - I don't remember what - that she didn't want to do.

He got mad. Angry. Furious.

He took her somewhere private, dragging her by her arm. I could hear her screams, deafening as they were, and my heart raced. When she returned to us, she was limping, tears streaking her face. Blood seeping down her legs. I don't know what he did to her; not sure I **want** to know, honestly. I have a theory, but it's not one I like to think about. It's not one I want to associate with Robau. Even if that evidence was staring me in the face. Because my dreams, my hopes would be shattered and I will be broken. So, I pretended not to notice.

So I preferred to live in willful ignorance.

Janice, on the other hand, never disobeyed, never stood up to him again.

I guess that was a good thing.

But I learned an important lesson that day. We were only women. Women promised something elusive, but so desperate to believe. Even when the truth stared so brutally at us, taunting us.

With Robau, we were free.

But he was still in control.

Always in control.

And, now, Commander Spock is in control. Always.

I cannot forget that.

He stands suddenly, disrupting my thoughts and bringing me with him. He slips out of me and turns me around. He brings his hands up to cup my face and kisses me deeply. I moan into his mouth, resting my hands on his waist and pressing my sweat-slicked nude body against his clothed one.

He ends the kiss and pushes me back, propelling me back a step. His hands drift to his uniform and he proceeds to undress.

Good. I yearn to feel his flesh against mine. Not to feel that starched uniform between our bodies.

After he's done undressing, after carefully folding his uniform and setting it on the desk, he returns to me and turns me around, my back to his chest, and pushes me to the floor. He presses me forward until I lie flat on the ground, his hot body pressing against mine.

He thrusts into me without warning and I cry out, arching my back slightly, the back of my head against his shoulder. He moans loudly in my ear, his breath hot against my cheek. He thrusts into me deeply and with abandon.

I cannot control my moans, my cries. He feels too good, thrusting deep within me. I want to participate, to thrust back. But I cannot. His hips pin mine to the rough floor and I am at his mercy, the rough carpet grinding against my clit with each thrust.

He presses forward, running his hands along my arms until he reaches my hands, which he grips tightly. I feel him completely, all around me and inside of me. I keen. Loudly.

He presses me tightly into the floor, his deep thrusts pulling cries from my lips. And I cannot move against him. I can only cry out, press my head against his shoulder, squeeze his hands. He doesn't want my participation. Maybe he doesn't want it because it levels the playing field, so to speak. It implies equal status in this twisted, dominating relationship we have...if you could call it a relationship.

He wants to dominate me.

A sharp deep thrust hits that spot hidden within me and I cry out. I'm close. So close. My body tenses, my pussy clenching around him.

I whimper.

I am overwhelmed with him, his cock moving deeply within me, his body pressed along the length of mine. I crest for the second time this evening, quivering around him. He's quick to follow, thrusting wildly a few more times, spilling his seed within me.

I sag against the floor. He settles on top of me, resting on his elbows and his forehead against the back of my head and breathing harshly. He is careful not to crush me. I suppose I should be thankful for that. I don't move. I don't think I could. I press my forehead against the carpet beneath me, closing my eyes.

I feel him kissing my shoulders, the back of my neck. Balancing his weight on one arm, he brings me closer, wrapping an arm around my waist. My breathing slowly returns to normal.

And I'm able to think of other matters. Other more important matters. Like his assignment to the Special Forces. I don't understand it. Why? Why him? Why is he willing to work for them, to command them? And why did Barnett imply that the Commander's loyalty was in question? That I definitely didn't understand.

My voice is quiet. "How can you work for the same people who killed your mother?"

I am reaching here, guessing. But it makes sense. The Special Forces are the ones who dish out the law. He, as of this evening, now commands them. It makes sense to me that these Forces arrested his mother, executed her in some perverse form of justice. I cannot understand why. He clearly loved his mother—that smiling child in his mother's lap—and yet he can easily turn his back on her, on her sacrifice and work...command the very forces that killed her.

He grabs my hair and pulls my head back, pressing me firmly against his chest and his shoulder. I moan in pain and he leans his face into my neck, running his flat tongue against the length of my throat. "It is unwise to speak of things you do not understand." His voice is heady, impassioned with anger.

Things I don't understand. Like I'm ignorant of the workings of the world around me. Like I don't understand that the Empire using the Special Forces to do its dirty work. Like I don't understand that the leader of those Forces is the one who determines who lives and who dies. Who is a traitor and who is loyal. Like I don't understand that I'm sleeping with the enemy.

"Then explain it. Explain how you can forget that the Empire murdered your mother. Explain how you can work side by side these people, the people who watched your mother die. Explain how you just don't seem to care."

Slipping out of me, the Commander turns me around with a fierce grip to face him, hovering over me. He pulls my hair again, forcing my head back—I wince—and he exposes my bruised neck. "I do not have to explain myself to you. I have not asked for explanations for your presence at the Academy. I have not asked how you managed to bypass the required physical, for you must have succeeded in such a feat. I have not asked why a woman such as yourself would risk her life by breaking several laws to be here."

I say nothing. I can't. What could I say? He's right. I am breaking the law and I am risking everything being here.

"My mother broke the law of the Empire and the punishment for her crimes was death. It is illogical to waste my time wishing for another outcome. It is illogical to blame the Empire for enforcing the law."

"Even when the law itself is illogical? Even when the laws tell us that millions...billions are to suffer? When is it logical to question the law, if not now? When do we ask why? When do we ask why women must suffer?" Why I was forced to endure what I had endured? "Tell me, Commander, what is the logical reason for the men doing what they did to me? Tell me why the Empire deems it legal for a man to torture, rape a woman, but it is illegal for a woman to flee?" I feel tears in my eyes. I can't fight them. I don't want to. I want him to see them. I want him to say something. I want to hear him say that the Empire is full of shit, that it's a demonic regime. I want to hear him tell me the logical reasons that I have suffered. I want him to rationalize it.

His eyes close and he takes a deep breath, before opening his eyes again. "The Empire tells us that women are needed to assuage the naturally violent and sexual tendencies of men so that they may function within society."

I squeeze my eyes closed, feeling tears fall. I shake my head. That's not what I wanted to hear. I did not want to hear him endorse it. "And in this Empire, Vulcans are just like the women. Rolling over onto their backs and getting fucked by the humans instead of standing up for themselves."

He glares at me, a hand grasping my still-tender throat. His fingers dig into the fading bruises on my neck and I wince.

His fragile emotional control is slipping away. But I'm not finished.

"You told me that your mother and I are alike. I wonder if, like me, she'd be disappointed if she knew the monster her son would become that day when she held her smiling happy four-year-old in her lap. I wonder what she would think if she knew the things her son would do, the travesties he would commit when he grew up."

He snarled at me, his grip on my throat tightening to an almost uncomfortable level. "You'd best remember your place, Cadet." I've made him angry. I can tell. I have learned, and quickly too, that he lashes out when angry, that his past is something he does not like to discuss. It is off limits.

I must remember my place; I must not speak out against him. I must remember that he is the one in control—they all are; I control nothing—and he is the one who owns my body. He is the one who controls my body's reactions. He can cause pleasure. He can cause pain. It's up to him. He may even control my mind. I've felt him in there, messing around. God only know what he's capable of doing when he's in there. I've felt him invading my body with cock—I've all but begged for it—and I've felt him invade my mind with...God, I don't know. I have bruises on my body. Bruises he gave me. Evidence that he can control my body, evidence that he can hurt me. That he **will** hurt me if I don't obey. I'm not in control.

I'm never in control.

I feel somewhat lightheaded, his grip on my neck ever tightening. I don't even know if he's aware of it. I grab his wrist, attempting to pull his hand away.

He releases my throat and I turn my head to the side, coughing. I take a deep breath. "I remember." My words escape my lips harshly and my eyes close for a moment. "I am your whore, sir."

He leans in and kisses me, thrusting his tongue into my mouth to dance with mine and pressing his hips tightly against mine, grinding his pubic bone into mine, my clit. Sending fresh waves of intense pleasure. I moan, arching into him. It's a short kiss, one he quickly ends to press his forehead to mine. "That is something that you seem to enjoy. It would be illogical to deny it."

I squeeze my eyes closed. He's right. Damn it, he's right. I do enjoy it. I yearn for it. And I'm ashamed of myself for my reaction. Tears leak from my closed lids. I did not want to fall back into this life. But I have. And I don't think I can escape this time. I don't know if I even want to.

I don't.

"That's what I'm supposed to do, right?" I whisper. "Isn't it easier to give into you than it would be to fight you? I tell myself that if I give myself to you, maybe it won't hurt as much. And if I don't give you what you demand, you'll have me killed, won't you?" I open my eyes, more tears falling, and meet his eyes.

I want him to be an ally. I don't want to be alone in this.

He says nothing, his eyes sliding from me to the carpet below me. I watch him, trying to figure him out. I don't know if I can. I don't know if it's possible for me to understand him. I just don't know. "If this disgusts you, if I disgust you, why do you not seek escape? Why do you remain and place yourself in danger, why do you allow me the use of your body?"

My eyes close. "Because there has to be a better future. I need to see that future. And I will do what I must to see it."

His hand caresses my face and I open my eyes. His face is a mask of blank expression. But his eyes. His eyes are the exact opposite. They bore into me, two endless seas of something so deep, so powerful. Emotion. I don't know what he's experiencing emotionally. But I am paralyzed beneath him, watching his eyes, feeling his hands caress my face.

Finally he speaks in a quiet voice. "You are a member of the Rebellion, are you not? You speak of that of which the Rebels speak. A new future."

My sharp intake of air is the only sound in the room. My eyes widen. Panic is setting in. I know it is. My heart is pounding in my chest; there's no way he doesn't hear it, doesn't feel it. I can't answer. If I answer, it will be my death. But if I don't answer, what will he do to me? Am I willing to take that risk? I look at him. He's staring at me, his eyes hooded. He looks pensive, but I have no way of truly knowing. I don't know if that's what I see or what I **want** to see. I shake my head. I need to say something. I open my mouth.

He places a finger on my lips. "Do not answer. If you answer my inquiry in such a manner to suggest that you are, I will be forced, as the officer in charge of the Special Forces, to arrest you and charge you. You will be executed for treason." He leans into me, resting his forehead against mine. "I do not... **desire** to see such actions brought upon you. It would bring me great unrest to do so."

I close my eyes and nod. "Okay."

We lie together like this for several moments. Our foreheads pressed against one another. I don't know what he's thinking. I don't know what he's going to do. I struggle not to let that bother me. I force myself to focus only on his body pressing against mine.

Suddenly, he gets off of me, sitting back. The cool air causes me to gasp and my nipples to tighten; I got used to his heat against me. "Perhaps it would be best if you leave now."

He gets to his feet, heedless of his nudity. I lie still, watching, my chest heaving. He grabs his clothing that he threw off and leaves the living area, entering his bathroom. The door slides closed and I am left alone.

I'm not sure how long I remained there, lying naked on his floor. But eventually, I get up and grabbed my own clothes. I want desperately to take a shower, but that is obviously out of the picture here. So I dress. I pull my pants on, wrap the linen cloth around my breasts, put my uniform top and sash on. And I place the wig on my head.

When I am done, he is still in the bathroom. I can hear the shower running. I go to the door, bring my hand up to knock, but I hesitate at the last moment. I don't stay. I don't stay to wait for his return. He may change his mind if he sees that I am still here when he exits the bathroom. So I don't wait. I grab my bag and I leave his quarters.

Captain Pike stands in the hallway, studying me carefully. I salute him and pass quickly.

It is difficult not to run away from his piercing gaze.

I can't shake the feeling that he suspects the truth.


	12. The Circling Predator Seeks a Slaughter

The Commander summons me a few days later. I go to him. As I must. He greets me at the door, mindful of Captain Pike's presence behind me, staring.

I'm mindful of that as well. Terrified of that. Is he going to reveal my identity? Does he know? Is he going to declare that I look far too feminine, that I look like the whore Commander Spock had over that one night, the whore he all but begged to borrow? I know my masculine disguise, my identity as Benjamin is a flimsy one. I am aware of the feminine curves of my body, the delicate features of my hands, my face. I am surprised I have not been discovered earlier. And in all honesty, perhaps I should have been discovered long ago. If the men here were more observant, if they actually looked at me carefully, saw my feminine body for what it was, maybe I would have been.

But most were all too quick to dismiss the small, effeminate man with a high voice. They probably imagined I would wash out. And quickly, too. I almost did. But my determination, my dreams of a better world pushed me forward.

"Good evening, Cadet Uhura," the Commander says to me and stands aside in the open doorway, allowing me to enter. He says nothing to the Captain, just gives him an acknowledging nod, and closes the door.

This night, Commander Spock takes me in his arms. Takes me to his sleeping chamber, where he undresses me and himself. And he takes me on his bed, sliding in and out slowly, grasping my hands in his and holding them above my head. He presses his body tightly against mine and I am utterly and completely surrounded by him. I throw my head back, riding the slow blissful wave, and he nestles his face into my neck. He lavishes the column of my throat with wet kisses, his lips moving in a manner that suggests he is whispering silent words. I don't know what he says. If he was even saying anything at all.

My climax is a slow languishing swell, mingling with the residual fear I feel that he may decide to tell someone—Pike—of my affiliation. I cry out, grasping his hands, intertwining our fingers and arching against him. He follows me, his own orgasm just as lingering but no less powerful, resting his forehead against mine, my name a quiet exhalation on his lips.

He kisses me, slowly and deeply. I open my mouth to his and allow his tongue to mingle with mine. I arch my back, pressing my breasts to his chest, and run my feet across the back of his calves. I tangle my hands in his hair and hold his face close to mine, deepening the kiss. He moans against my mouth.

He ends the kiss and presses his body against mine. "I would greatly desire that you stay."

I do.

* * *

The sunlight hits my face and my eyes open before wincing beneath the bright light. I rub my eyes with the back of my hand, ridding them of the gritty sleep. Sitting up and letting the covers slide down my naked body and pool at my waist, I look at the opposite side of the bed.

The Commander is not there. I run a hand across the smooth surface of the sheets. They are cool to the touch, suggesting that he's been out of bed for a while.

I sigh, running my hand through my tangled hair.

He fucked me several times last night, bringing me to new plateaus of pleasure over and over. But he was not rough. No new bruises mar my body, for which I'm grateful.

I throw the sheets off my body and get off the bed. I scan the floor—our scattered clothing still litters the floor—and grab the first piece of clothing I find: his black undershirt. I slip it on. It's long enough on me to cover what needs to be covered, which is a small comfort.

Running my hands through my hair again in a futile attempt to untangle it, I move to the closed door. It would be stupid to deny that I'm not a little nervous. I don't know what this morning will bring. I don't know how the Commander will behave this morning. He may have been contained, almost gentle last night, but today, he may be violent, rough like he has been.

I press the button on the panel beside the door to open it, but it doesn't budge. Holding back a sigh, I press it again but to avail. He's locked it, trapping me in here. I raise my hand to pound on the door, to beg him to let me out.

But I hear voices just on the other side of the door and I halt. My heart races in my chest and my hands feel clammy. Fearing what lies on the other side, I lean against the door and press my ear to the cold surface. I don't want to make a sound. I don't want to be heard. I don't want to be dragged out of the room and displayed before someone else.

"May I inquire as to why you voiced concerns about my loyalty to the Empire, Captain Pike?" Commander Spock's calm voice sounds, slightly muffled by the door separating the bedroom from the living area.

My heart races. Pike. What is he doing here? Is he about to tell the Commander he knows? Is he about to demand my presence so he can drag me away? Or fuck me?

A dark laugh. I tense with the sound. Pike answers, "Spock, how many times have I told you to call me Chris?"

There is a long stretch of silence, accented with the blood pounding in my ears, the quiet puffs of air rushing from my lips.

"I do not appreciate your speaking with another about my loyalty. Nor do I appreciate your offering my name for the Special Forces, sir."

Pike sighs. "What's your concern?"

"I have told you, Captain, that I do not desire such deplorable work."

"What are you talking about? The Special Forces upholds the laws, protects the citizens. It is an honor to serve in the Special Forces."

An honor? It's an honor to brutally torture and execute prisoners before displaying them like meat in a butcher's shop? Do those prisoners even get a fair assessment of their crimes? I remember when Spock immediately sentenced those saboteurs to death without even seeing them. No, fair is not the correct word.

"What would have happened to me had I refused Admiral Barnett?" I can almost imagine the Commander tilting his head to the side, awaiting an answer.

And I can't help but wonder as well. Would Admiral Barnett have merely nodded and accepted Commander Spock's answer? Or would he have done something incredibly different, something typically reserved for prisoners?

"Does it matter? You accepted."

Spock sighs; it's so quiet that I have to strain my ears to hear it. "I accepted because I felt that I had no choice. Because my loyalty was in question. So I ask again, Captain, why?"

"Oh, come on, Spock. Do you really need to ask? You've been behaving differently ever since Vulcan. And don't deny it."

"That was not my intention."

"You won't tell anyone what the hell happened on that goddamn planet." Pike's voice is rising. A tinge of anger, frustration.

"It is none of your concern." Spock's voice is still calm, a counter to the agitated voice of his superior officer.

"Did you...find someone interesting while you were there?"Pike's voice takes on a curious edge to it. I can't explain it, but it confuses me.

"Please elucidate."

Pike sighs. "You know damn well what I'm talking about."

There is a long stint of silence. I grow antsy waiting for the Commander's response.

"You know that I did not."

"But something happened. You've never been so keen on logic and that damned Vulcan mumble jumble until your assignment."

"I do not understand your concern, sir." Commander Spock's voice is still calm, collected. "My newfound commitment to the teachings of Surak has no bearing on my loyalty to the Empire."

"For now, perhaps. But how much longer before you start spouting that nonsense and denouncing the Empire? How long before you decide to join in that fucking Rebellion?"

"It is highly unlikely that such an event will occur."

Pike scoffs. "You're going soft, Spock."

"I beg your pardon." There's a faint edge of irritation to his voice.

"I need a First Officer who can lead, incite fear among my crew, not spend his days meditating over the existence of the soul or whatever."

"Katra."

"Whatever. There was a time when I was sure you were the one for the job, Spock. There was a time when cadets and officers feared you. Hell, even **Admirals** ran from you. And women would leave your place in a body bag."

I suppress a gasp. I knew Commander Spock's reputation for violence, but I did not know that he was prone to murdering the women he bedded. How long before he decided he was tired of me?

When the Commander answers, he speaks slowly, like he's trying to be careful of his words. "Miss Chapel was an unfortunate accident. A victim to my...time. As you well know. I had not intended to cause her such lethal harm. And I have not done so with another woman since, as you also well know."

His time? What the hell does that mean?

"And now you have this sweet new thing. Where is she anyway? I haven't seen her for a while. Got her tied to your bed?" Pike's voice grows louder with each word. He's approaching the bedroom door.

I jump away, hurling myself back toward the bed, my heart lurching in my throat. Please don't let him enter. Please.

Spock's voice moves closer as well. "That is not your concern, Captain. As I informed, she belongs to me."

I despise his treatment of me as property, but I am thankful for his stalling of Pike.

Pike sighs. "Come on, Spock."

He retreats from the door and I release a small sigh of relief. Carefully, I stand up and return to the door, pressing my ear against the cold metallic surface.

"What is it that you wish to speak to me about, sir? Surely you did not merely intend to disrupt my meditation."

"I'm worried about you, Spock. You're beginning to tread dangerous territory."

"As you are well aware, contracting diseases is unlikely. The women are screened regularly. And pregnancy is impossible. When a woman is deemed unworthy of becoming a wife, she is rendered infertile. It would be an unnecessary risk for the men."

A hand drifts to my abdomen, clinching. So that was what the tests and everything else was for. I remember, after the Admiral took me from my home, being sent to a facility somewhere, I don't know where specifically. I was sixteen and frightened to death. My virginity had just been ripped from my body by a lumbering monster of a man while my parents watched. And then, I was there. In a cold sterile room, naked and strapped to a gurney. A man came in the room, wearing a white lab coat and recording something on his PADD.

Please, I begged. Please. Over and over I pleaded. I wanted to go home. But home was no longer safe; my parents were no longer a comfort to me. Betrayal awaited me at home. But it could not have been as bad as the torment I endured with the Admiral.

The man in the lab coat smiled coldly and injected me with a hypospray.

The next thing I remember was waking up, strapped to the Admiral's bed, a slight pain in my lower abdomen, the tiniest of incisions marring my skin.

I do not mourn the loss of my future children. I don't want children. Not in this world. I do not want to watch my sons grow to be monsters and my daughters to be property of those monsters. No. This is better. This is the way it needs to be. I have a mission here and fear of pregnancy would only complicate matters. And fatally so.

The Captain sighs. "That's not exactly what I was referring to, Spock." His voice draws me from my memories. Then: "Where's Cadet Uhura?"

The blood in my veins freezes and I cannot move. Is this it? Is this the time he tells Commander Spock he knows? Is this the point that he orders Spock to retrieve me so that he can take me to the authorities?

"I beg your pardon?" Is he stalling? Or is he startled by Pike's sudden change of topic, though it's really just the same, isn't it?

"I'm just curious. I didn't see him leave last night."

He was watching Commander Spock's door? He was waiting for me to leave? He must have been, otherwise why ask? Why mention that he didn't see me leave? Because he didn't. Because Cadet Uhura spent the night getting fucked by a professor, his professor.

"I do not keep...tabs on Cadet Uhura's whereabouts."

Now that's a lie if I ever heard one.

"Of course not. I wouldn't expect you to, Spock, but why would the cadet be dropping by your apartment on a Friday night?"

"Cadet Uhura is working on a project of utmost importance and I have offered my skills and knowledge. The cadet has decided to take advantage of my offer."

"What's so special about Cadet Uhura, anyway, Spock? You've never played favorites and this time, you put in the order to transfer Cadet Kirk out of their shared dorm room."

"Cadet Uhura has exhibited abilities superior to most other cadets. I believe with such ability, Cadet Uhura is a highly valuable asset to Starfleet. Recently, the cadet expressed to me difficulty sleeping due to Cadet Kirk's antics. I decided that the most logical solution was to rearrange their living arrangements in a way that was optimal for both."

"Uh-huh. And it was necessary to transfer Kirk clear across campus?"

"It is unfortunate that no other room was available."

More silence. I imagine that Pike is growing frustrated, irritated.

"If that is all, Captain, I must meditate now. You have given me much to think about and I must organize my thoughts."

Straining, I hear the door to Commander Spock's apartment open.

"Don't forget, Spock, people will be watching you. Don't give them any reason to doubt your loyalty. Or it's the hook for you."

"Understood, sir."

The door closes and it grows silent. And the silence stretches for a long time.

He doesn't come to the bedroom door. I guess he does what he told Pike he was doing: meditate.

I sigh and turn around to rest my back against the bedroom door. I have no way of knowing how much longer I can expect to be trapped in this room. I slide down the door to the floor, drawing my knees to my chest and resting my head against the door.

I eye the bed, its sheets rumpled and mattress slightly askew. A visual reminder of the sex we had last night. Yes, he took me several times last night. His mouth and hands touched every inch of my body; his cock reaching deep within me. He still dominated me, controlling every thrust, every lick, every kiss. But the violence I have come to expect from him was missing. I don't know if it was an attempt on his part to ease my nerves, perhaps realization how difficult it is for me to do as he ordered me: Let him fuck me or be turned in.

But I don't understand **why** he gave me that choice, though I'm sure some people would say it wasn't much of one, not when he already had his fingers in my pussy and his cock quickly following. I've asked once, sure, but I don't know I can believe his answer. I don't believe him when he says that Starfleet **needs** someone with my abilities. If that were true, then why doesn't Starfleet put a greater emphasis on xenolinguistics? Why doesn't it upgrade those facilities? What is the Commander getting out of this twisted arrangement other than the frequent sex? Why would he risk his career, his own life on me, a woman with dreams that the universe can be a better place? It isn't logical. It doesn't make sense.

I close my eyes. I'm frustrated. Trapped in this room with nothing to do. My stomach rumbles. It's been a while since I've eaten anything, but there's nothing I can do about it.

Minutes go by. Stretching into an hour. Maybe two. I don't know. I just sit here, my back against the door, waiting. I use this time to think, but it's difficult. Being trapped against my will brings too many memories back. Of him. And the room he called mine, where he strapped me to the bed, where he would torment me, use me in whatever way he saw fit. For his own twisted perversions. And when he would leave me alone and I begged God to let me die. I didn't want to live like that. I had, foolishly perhaps, envisioned a life where I was doing what I wanted, marrying who I wanted, if I even wanted to.

No. I don't want to be trapped in here anymore.

Tears prick my eyes. My throat tightens.

The door slides open suddenly, startling me. I catch myself before I fall backwards. I scramble to my feet, pulling down the hem on the shirt I wore.

Commander Spock stares at me, draped in his full length meditation robes. his face is blank as could be, but his eyes are a raging storm of emotion. I stare back, silent. I still don't know how he will act towards me. I don't know his mood. The emotion I see in his eyes is intense but I don't know what it is he's feeling. He could be violent.

He takes a step toward me, a hand raising, and I step back, flinching. My reaction is instinctive; I didn't intend to. But he halts, dropping his hand to his side.

"You have been crying."

My hands touch my face. I wasn't aware that my tears fell. I swipe at them, desperate to remove them.

"You are upset." He speaks in that monotone voice, the voice that irks me because I can't figure out if he's angry at me or concerned. I can't figure out anything about him and I **need** to. I need to know his emotions, so I can protect myself, behave the way I need to, to ensure that I don't get hurt.

I shake my head. I don't want to tell him anything. He could use it against me. I can't risk it. "No. It's nothing."

His eyes narrow slightly. "You are lying."

I say nothing else. Staring at him dressed completely in those robes, I feel self-conscious, nervous in just his shirt. I tug on the hem again, as though it will suddenly increase in length. It doesn't, of course.

His eyes follow my movements. But he says nothing further on the topic. Instead, he turns around and walks out of the room, not waiting to see if I follow, which I do. "I have taken the liberty to order us lunch from the nearby Chinese takeout. I presume lo mien would be suitable to your palette?" He stops walking in the living room, in front of the couch.

I nod.

And the silence grows uncomfortable. We stare at one another, as though we are waiting. But I have no idea what we're waiting for.

The silence stretches.

I drop my gaze, pushing my hair back and crossing my arms, and ask the questions that have continued to bug me. "Why did you lie about me? Why didn't you tell him the truth? Save yourself the trouble?"

If he is surprised that I heard his conversation with Pike, he doesn't show it. "I did not lie. I only spoke the truth."

I shake my head, looking at him again. "Fine. You omitted." Cleverly, too. He took care not to require the use of pronouns.

"My deception was part of our arrangement, was it not? I promised to protect your secret in return—"

I interrupt him. "For sex."

He remains silent.

I suppress a sigh. "But why? Why would you even bother trying to protect me? And don't give me that crap about Starfleet needing someone with my abilities." I cringe when I finish speaking. I went too far, I know I did.

I wait for him to lash out.

"You intrigue me, Nyota. Three years, eight months and five days ago, I saw a young first year cadet unlike any other I have seen before. Diminutive and delicate, I knew immediately that you were a woman. I shall admit that I was fascinated that by that woman who would risk her life by enlisting in Starfleet. But I knew she had to be intelligent and cunning enough to bypass the prerequisite exams, to fool her fellow cadets and professors. For the majority of my life, the women I have seen do nothing to change their lot in life and seem to accept their lower stature. So I watched you. I do not wish to see you fail, Nyota."

I look at him, embarrassment flowing through my veins. He holds my gaze for several minutes. He doesn't want to see me fail. Fail at graduating the Academy or fail something else? Something bigger than that, bigger than us? I don't dare ask. I don't dare because he is not one of us. He is loyal. He stated this. And Vulcans do not lie.

But he doesn't want me to fail.

Then I step toward him.

And I kiss him.

It's a small kiss, barely lasting a second. But it is important nonetheless. It is the first time **I** kissed him. And when we part, he cups my face in his hands, brushing his thumbs across my lips. I say nothing, simply look at him.

The door chimes and I jump, dropping my gaze.

And the mood has left.


	13. The Dangers of Imminent Collapse

The Wall taunts me. Large, drab, and imposing, it looms above me as I walk down the bloodied sidewalk. Bodies hang from those harrowing hooks. Every day, every time I pass, there are new bodies. For the past several weeks, since Commander Spock has been placed in charge, the body count has increased. It scares me.

I stop and I stare at every new body I see hanging. It's become a ritual. I grieve for these bodies. I mourn because someone has to.

Tonight, there are four bodies. Fresh. The blood still drips from their limbs onto the stained sidewalk below. I still can't see their faces—I'm glad for that—but the injuries their bodies have endured...What did these four bodies—three women and a man—do to earn Commander Spock's swift and brutal punishment? Or was it swift? How the hell can I know? How can I know that he doesn't order them to be tortured first, in attempts to wrangle confessions from their screaming lips? Are their faces forever frozen in fear, in agony beneath those white and red shrouds? How can I know that he doesn't participate?

He must. I swear he must.

I know he does.

I have entered his quarters far too often to the sight of him standing over his kitchen sink, washing his hands far too furiously for a stoic Vulcan and colored liquid swirling down the drain. Red. Green. Black. Blue. Pink. The colors of blood. So much blood. I learned quickly not to question him about that blood.

I have let myself ignore the implications of that for too long.

The man, the Vulcan I sleep with, who I allow to fuck my body, whose touch I long for, is a monster. A conflicted monster of the Empire's creation. He protests. He claims to abhor it. But in the end, he's still the monster the Empire wants him to be. He's thrown himself into this new position Starfleet has bestowed him with an unwavering and frightening resolve. He withdrew himself as professor of my Andorian class. Professor Veleen has returned, bruised and broken, but no less determined to teach the language of his people. I think he was imprisoned behind the Wall. I think the Commander released him. But I have no proof of this. Nor do I have any idea why. I don't intend to ask him.

I don't see the Commander unless he calls for me, which he does virtually every night. I, of course, go to him. I shouldn't. But I'm drawn like a vulnerable moth to the encompassing flame. I want to understand him. I want to know why he struggles. Struggles with his newfound Vulcan beliefs and the merciless Empire he places such fate in. He intrigues me, just as I intrigue him.

But I am also frightened.

I stare at the dead bodies. Human, they're all human this time. Last time, there was a Bolian. These humans, their injuries calling out to me. And she, the one nearest me, looks so similar to me, it's jarring. I can't see her face; I don't want to see her face. But her body is small, delicate, and her skin, her brown skin bears bruises and lashes and gashes. She is the most damaged of the four; she suffered the most. My eyes rest on the dark rings around her limp wrists, my hand unconsciously rubbing the identical bruises around my own wrists.

I close my eyes. The bruises I received yesterday.

The door to his apartment opened upon my arrival; the door always opens for me—he's programmed it to—and I always step over the threshold. When the door slid closed and the lock engaged automatically, I set my bag on the floor and removed my wig, my clothing. Stripped myself bare the way I know he wants me. There's no reason for clothing within the walls of his apartment.

Naked, I listened for him. I heard water running in the kitchen. The kitchen area's one of the first rooms that branches off the tiny little foyer area. I took a couple of steps, my bare feet silent on the floor, and glanced into the room.

The overwhelming metallic smell hit me first and I fought the reflex to gag. He was standing over the sink, hot water—I could see the steam rising—pouring from the faucet and scalding his hands. His bloodied hands. His bright red blood-stained hands. Human blood.

I gasped. Or I made some sort of noise. I'm sure I did, because he jerked his head up and looked at me. A frightfully blank and contained look on his face.

I shook violently. I remember that. I was frightened. Blood was never a good thing. Blood on **him** , blood that clearly **wasn't** his, could never be a good thing.

"You are earlier than I anticipated."

That's all he said, turning his attention back to his hands. If anything, his actions became more fevered.

I took a step forward, heedless of my nudity, for I have long grown used to his eyes upon my bare flesh. I asked him where the blood came from. I couldn't keep my questions inside any longer.

"It is not your concern," he said. He didn't look at me.

I stepped closer. "Is it human blood?" I asked. "Did it come from the Wall?"

"The Wall?" He was perplexed. Then: "You are referring to the headquarters for the Special Forces, are you not?" He scrubbed fiercely. His hands were turning a bright green, the scalding water and the fierce motions of his hands injuring his skin.

I reacted. I yelled at him, angry at his nonchalance. "Did you torture someone? Am I going to see a new body hanging outside that place the next time I walk by?"

"I cannot logically confirm nor deny your second query, for I do not know how often you encounter the facility." There was a small quiver in his voice. Something was affecting him. I was glad for that. He should be affected.

I moved closer. "Did you? Did you watch some man, some woman bleed? Did you enjoy it?" I was pushing, I know I was. But he was nonreactive, so calm despite the blood staining his hands, the quiver in his voice. It infuriated me. "Did you kill someone today, Commander? That's against the teachings of Surak, isn't it?"

He stopped scrubbing, rested his hands against the edges of the sink and leaned heavily—one might say he sagged—against the counter, his eyes closing. He muttered quietly. " _Tilek svi'khaf-spol t'vathu - tilek svi'sha'veh_."

My mind quickly translated the words.

 _The spear in the other's heart is the spear in your own._

My eyes widened. The implications of that quote...were insurmountable. But I didn't want to deal with those implications. So I didn't.

"And yet, you do it. You slaughtered them."

He opened his eyes. "I do what I must. For the Empire." He repeated the words. It was like he was trying to convince himself. "I do what I must because I am bound to the Empire, to Starfleet. We are all enslaved by the Empire."

I scoffed, my anger, my frustration taking control. "Bullshit," I spit at him. "What do you know about enslavement? What did you know about being forced into a life you've never wanted because the Empire deemed it necessary? Forced...forced by your own parents to be a sex slave for the highest bidder, a despicable man who didn't care for your feelings, who didn't care if you screamed in agony and fear, as long as he was able to fuck your body? Tell me, Commander Spock, do you know what it's like to be beg for death, only to have it denied you because your pussy was still useful, still tight?" Tears were streaming down my face. I felt them, but I refused to brush them away.

He was silent. His breathing was slow, steady. His eyes closed. He leaned against the kitchen counter more heavily, as though weight of his actions were buckling his knees. His voice faltered. "The Empire strives to protect its citizens. I was tasked with helping the Empire with this duty."

"And your precious Empire killed your own mother." It was a low blow, I know. But it was all I had. It was all I knew of him. It was all he'd given me.

Silence. He stood at the sink, shaking with the intensity of the emotions that were no doubt coursing through his cold veins.

I released a shaky breath.

Suddenly, without warning, he let out a cry and launched at me. I couldn't get away fast enough and he pushed me into the small island counter behind me, hands wrapped around my bare shoulders. They burned, scorched by the water. I winced at his forceful grasp.

He kissed me. It was bruising, fierce. I moaned into his mouth and he thrust his tongue in. He reached up and entwined his fingers through my hair, pulling me closer. My hands settled on his chest. His hands dropped to my waist and dipped lower, between my legs. Deftly, he forced a leg between mine, spreading them, and a hand against my pussy. I was so exposed to him, nude and trapped against the counter, pliable under his touch. He pressed his fingers between my legs, teasing, arousing.

I broke the kiss to cry out, tightening my grip upon his hair. It should be shameful how little it takes for him to make me wet.

He released me and picked me up, gripping me around my waist. He carried me to his bedroom, where he set me upon the mattress. He undressed quickly, unfastening his own pants and pulling out his cock. He stroked himself a few times then he grabbed my legs and lifted them to his waist, forcing me to lean back and support myself on my elbows. He leaned forward, resting one hand against the mattress beneath me and another pressed into my lower back, pulling me closer, and thrust inside me.

I cried out, grabbing onto his shoulders, tightening my legs around his waist as he pounded into me roughly, burying himself to the hilt with each thrust. He pressed his forehead against mine and kissed me again. He reached up and grabbed my wrists, pinning them above my head. His grip was powerful, painful; I felt the fragile bones in my wrists protest and I feared they would break under his pressure. I cried out, a cry of pain, not pleasure.

"You're hurting me," I whispered, looking at his face, gasping in pain, in pleasure.

But he said nothing; he did nothing. He was too far gone, blind with lust and anger. He pounded into me and I could do nothing but whimper, both in pleasure and pain.

It was a brief union. We both quickly spiraled toward completion, panting and gasping against lips.

He collapsed against me, the grip on my wrists finally loosening, and he buried his face in my shoulder. My shoulder grew wet, but I didn't bother to ask why. I gasped, panted into the air. With my hands now freed, I reached up and pushed him.

He moved off me and I rolled to my side, curling into fetal position, my legs to my chest, my back to him and my hands gingerly inspecting my wrists. They ached but they weren't broken. Tears leaked from my eyes. He had not been that rough, that painful for a while, not since his confession that I intrigued him enough that he was willing to ignore the laws for me. I had allowed myself to fall into that sense of security that his fascination with me would keep me safe from his deadly grip. But that was before I taunted him with his Empire and his mother.

He needed to punish me.

I should be thankful that at least I still experienced pleasure.

He shifted on the mattress and I froze. He moved closer, pressing his chest against my back, and a hand reached out and touched my shoulder. He ran his hand down my arm to my wrists. I cried out weakly when he touched the rapidly forming bruises and jerked my hands away, pulling them closer to my body.

I felt tears pooling in my eyes and I didn't fight them. He wrapped his arm around my waist and pulled me close, burying his face into the crook of my neck. I felt it grow wet again. Like tears.

But I didn't say anything.

And he didn't either.

Not for a long time.

Finally, when he spoke, his voice was a low rumble, rough with raw emotion, more emotion than I've ever heard from him. "I do not question your actions, your motives. Please, I expect you to do the same for me. "

I could not stop my response, my emotions so fraught with pain and sorrow, so stretched thin. It was a stupid thing to say. It was absolutely stupid. I replied to him angrily, "At least I'm not a murderer. At least I'm not killing anyone." But I am. I am a murderer. I don't say that, though.

He released me, turning his back on me. "Please, leave." Two simple words whispered so quietly, so fiercely. He was holding something back. I could tell. I could hear it in his voice. His emotions were getting a hold on him. I could tell.

But I left. I wasn't about to question him.

He's a monster. A monster I allow into my body; a monster who sobs silently into my shoulder. I don't know what that says about me. I don't know what that says about him.

Blood drips onto my outstretched hand—when did I reach for her, she who looks so much like me—pulling me back to reality. A reality I would love to forget, but I can't. It's inescapable. The cruelty, the pain. I want it gone. But it won't go.

I'll be late to my meeting with Gaila if I don't hurry.

* * *

Gaila is not the same. That was the first thing I noticed when I entered the bleak room of the disgusting whorehouse. She is broken. I don't know when it happened, how it happened. But she sits on the bed beside of me, eyeing my bruised wrists with a blank look on her bruised face. She has matching bruises. Darker bruises.

Her smile is gone.

We look at one another. I don't know what to say to her. I don't know what there is to tell her. I still don't know anything new.

Not really.

I also don't know how to talk to her anymore. Things are still tense between us. She still suspects that I want to encroach upon her territory. But, looking at her, at her injuries, I think I need to get her out of there.

Robau is growing angry with her. But I don't know why.

I don't know what to tell her. What information I can impart to her about Commander Spock that can keep her safe from Robau's wrath. I don't know anything new. I don't think Robau is interested in how the Commander expertly wrangles orgasms from my body, leaving me begging for more. How one time the Commander used his mouth upon me for what felt like hours. I don't think Robau would be interested in hearing about how we fuck each other, he fucks me on every surface throughout his apartment.

"Did he hurt you again?"

Her voice startles me. I jump, the memory of Spock's recent violence against me springing to my mind once more, and pull my hands to my chest, wrapping them around myself. "I, uh, I made him angry." In hindsight, I should not have taunted him with his mother's death. I know how deeply he still feels about it, even though he was only four years old when it happened. But he was so cold, so dismissive of the deaths he caused.

I know that's not true.

I heard the quiver of his voice; I felt the hot tears against my neck.

No, it troubles him.

But I try not to think about that. I can't let myself forgive him. I can't let myself feel for him. He's just a means to an end.

Gaila gives a quick harsh laugh, tainted with a sob. "You need to get out of there."

I jerk my head up to look at her, startled at her words. "Why?"

"Because Robau is getting angry."

I know that. I see the evidence of that on her body. "Is that why you look like that?" I jerk my head toward her body.

She gives that same broken laugh-sob again. "I look like this because **I** made him angry."

Our eyes meet, mine dry, hers wet.

"What happened?" I ask with a whisper.

Gaila shakes her head, brushing her flame-red hair away from her face. She swipes at her tears. "It was my fault. I interrupted him when he was talking to someone."

"Who?" It must be someone important if Gaila drew his wrath.

Gaila shakes her head, dropping her head into her hands. "I don't want to talk about it."

I sigh quietly. No, I don't blame her. She trusts Robau. She loves him. He equals safety for her. And he betrayed that. I can understand her trouble. Her pain. I reach out and pat her leg, a feeble attempt to comfort her. "Gaila?"

She sighs. And looks at me. "I don't know who it was. Some captain or something. They were talking about you."

My eyes widen and my heart pounds in my chest. A captain? What captain? Pike? He's the only captain I know, the only captain I have contact with. He was the captain who recruited me. Was he instrumental in getting me into Starfleet? Did he get me passed all the required tests and exams? I always questioned it, but I always thought that maybe Gaila worked her magic. I always thought that she used her computer skills to hack into the system and waive me from all of those exams.

But...if Pike is working with Robau, why does my skin crawl when he looks at me? Why does my heart jump in my throat when he approaches me, fearful that he will reveal what I know he must know about me? Why don't I know that he is a part of the plan?

"What...what did they say about me?"

"I don't know. They were complaining about how slow you were. About time running out. I don't know. None of it made any sense to me."

And it doesn't make any sense to me. But I don't voice my concerns. I don't want Robau to hurt her again. Instead, I voice my fear for her safety. "You need get away from him, Gaila. Don't forget what he did to Janice." No, never forget what he did to her. I don't want Gaila to do what I did and shove that memory away, because it was an inconvenience, because it didn't jive with the hopes and expectations of what I envisioned Robau to represent.

Gaila looks at me, her eyes wide, wet with fresh tears. "But he didn't mean to do it, right? He still loves me, right?"

I don't know what to tell her. I don't know what to say that can assuage her, what can put her troubled mind at rest. There are no words. I know this. She loves him, trusted him. And now, because of that love, she can barely walk. "You need to run away, Gaila. It's not safe."

I should run, too. But I can't.

"But where would I go?"

I have no answer. Because I don't know.


	14. The Scattered Pieces of a Broken Mess

I didn't know what to say to her. To Gaila. Instead, I sat on the bed, silent, as she sobbed. I don't know how to deal with that. I can't. I have fought for so long to block those emotions out. To not care. And even then, I falter. So often, I have faltered. I've faltered with myself. I've faltered with Commander Spock. He has seen me emotionally compromised more times than I care. I have cried in his arms. I have felt pleasure in his grasp. I have felt the beginning tendrils of trust for him. And we all know how well that ended; I still bear the horrible bruises from yesterday. And now, Gaila, whom I always trusted to be confident and happy despite the desperate circumstances we've endured. Now, she's broken because of her emotions for Robau. No, emotions are dangerous. You can't trust them to protect you. You can't trust them to be useful. Things would be easier to deal with if I didn't care, if I didn't feel at all. If only I could pretend to be a Vulcan. If only I could shut off my warring emotions.

But I know that even that won't work. Even they have emotions; I have bore witness to Commander Spock's far too many times to ignore that very knowledge. But how would a Vulcan process the torturous experiences I have endured? Could they, would they explain them away with logic? Is that even possible? Commander Spock certainly thinks so. Or he tries to convince himself of that. I don't know which it is yet. According to him, I've suffered what I've suffered because men can't control their baser urges, so women must be used to defuse them. I wonder if the Commander realizes how utterly ridiculous that sounds. If he realizes it's just a thin excuse men use to explain why they treat us the way they do, use us up until we no longer represent anything bearing identity.

Used. I hate that word. It's as if women are not people, merely objects. Objects don't matter—they don't have emotions or thoughts—but they can be...useful.

I shudder. The sun has set and the wind blows, chilling the air around me. I wrap my arms around myself, walking quickly down the sidewalk. I need to get to Commander Spock's apartment before it grows too late. I'm already late. He will be furious, won't he?

And now Gaila has reached her breaking point. Robau is dangerous. I can no longer deny it. Gaila can no longer deny it. I can see that now. Is he more dangerous than Commander Spock? Probably. Because he hides it behind a veil of concern, of caring. We grow to trust him, feel safe with him. We let our emotional guards down with him. Some grow to love him, like Gaila.

Yes, Robau can be a hundred times worse than Spock.

He still wants you, you know, and if he wants you, he's going to have you. Those were Gaila's parting words to me. I halted when I heard her, absorbing them. They did not relax me. They made me tense. I don't want him. I've never wanted him. Not in that way. Never in that way.

I've never **wanted** anyone that way.

I only fear that I may have grown to **need** someone that way.

Does that make me sick, twisted? Am I disgusting for needing the Vulcan Commander's touch? Do I need it? Or am I trying to convince myself that I do? Because it would make this all so much more bearable, wouldn't it? I certainly need to trust him, if only so that I don't go completely insane here, trapped in this male-dominating universe. But he broke that trust last night. So, does that mean that I'm crazy for still needing him? Am I weak for it?

I've asked myself these questions so many times, but I don't feel like I'm any closer to an answer. Maybe there isn't an answer. Maybe I'm supposed to be floundering uselessly, looking for an answer that can't be found. But I need answers.

So nervous I have become, so concerned about Robau, that I can't even begin to process Pike's involvement. That is, assuming it **is** Pike that Gaila overheard. There are several captains within Starfleet. It could have been any of them. It could have been the captain of the Farragut for all I know.

But my gut tells me that I'm right. It is Pike. Pike is involved. This new bit of knowledge has sent my head reeling. If he's a part of this mission, why wasn't I informed? Was it to protect me? Or him? Why do I feel fear and disgust at the very sight of him? He doesn't sound like a member of the Resistance. He speaks to Spock about honoring the Empire, Starfleet. Is it just for the Commander's benefit? Or is Pike playing Robau? How tangled is this web of betrayal and secrets? Who's the spider? Who's laying the trap, weaving the web? What's the role I'm supposed to play? Why won't Robau be straight with me? Am I just a helpless moth trapped within that web with no way out? A sacrifice for the greater good, if I can even figure that out anymore? Do I want out? Should I get out, run like I told Gaila to do? I don't know. I can't know. And I can't ask anyone for help. I certainly can't—I won't—ask Pike.

I feel guilty, leaving Gaila behind in the whorehouse, her emotions haywire. But Commander Spock is expecting me. As usual. I am already in danger of incurring Robau's wrath and I don't want to anger the Commander further.

I can only hope that Gaila will pull herself together and run. I want her to run away. I need her to run. Someone has to survive this. I don't want to see her back here. I want her to go somewhere else, far away from Robau. I fear for her safety.

I fear for mine.

My feet pound across the sidewalk. I'm nearing the Wall again. I hate that place. I hate what it represents. I hate that Commander Spock is in charge.

Up ahead, I can hear men working, yelling at one another. I look up from the sidewalk and halt. Special Forces soldiers are taking the bodies down. I have never witnessed this before. I have never seen what occurs when the bodies are removed from the hooks and new ones are added. It's disgusting to watch.

Two men, using ladders and lifts, scale the Wall. Working together, donning gloves, they reach behind the bodies and free them. The men below make no effort to catch the bodies. They just jump backwards and watch them fall to the ground with a sickening thud. The soldiers on the ground kick the bodies out of the way. One man, carrying a tricorder, approaches the bodies. He bends down and scans the corpses.

"Yep. They're all dead." His voice bears a Southern accent.

"Of course, they're all dead, Doc." A tall dark man approaches the Southern man.

"Not all of them have been, remember?"

I cringe at that image. I don't even want to contemplate that possibility. So I don't. I shove that image so far into the back of my mind. I do it for my own sanity.

The doctor stands and kicks the bodies again. "God, they stink."

A single new one goes up.

I don't stick around to look at it; I can't. I'm late for Commander Spock and I can't stand the bodies anyway.

I drop my gaze and rush past the soldiers, stepping over the desiccated bodies and listening in agony as they make lewd comments regarding me. Of course. Of course, they make comments to me. I look like the woman I am when I go to the whorehouse. It has previously never been that much of a safety issue when I pass the Wall because there is usually no one out to attack me.

God, I was so stupid for thinking that I would be safe. I never should have decided to venture out dressed like this. I should worn my uniform. But it's too late now. I've been seen.

I can only hope they leave me alone. That it doesn't hurt too much.

I hear them approaching me. And I halt. My heart rate increases and my breathing races. My brain tells me I should run. My fear tells me to freeze, that it'll be over faster if I don't fight it. Because I know what they're going to want. They all want the same thing.

A hand slithers across my waist and pulls me to a man's chest. "Where do you think you're going, sweetheart?" His Southern twang draws the words out. The doctor.

My breath comes out in pants. My throat constricts. My eyes burn. This is something I fear, something I've always feared when I dress this way, when I pass men on the street. It is something I've managed to avoid since beginning here in Starfleet, something I haven't had to deal with since Robau rescued me from the streets. But it's always a reality I face. I fear I shove far into the recesses of my mind.

His free hand forces its way up my skirt, between my legs.

I gasp, frightened, but otherwise remain frozen.

I should fight him. I should push him away, punch him in the face, and run. And maybe, if this was some other universe, if I hadn't endured the life I did before coming here, if I wasn't so...weak, I would have. I would have broken his nose. I would have knocked him unconscious.

Maybe I would have killed him.

The other men circle us. Four of them. They ogle my body, laugh at my falling tears.

The doctor whose arms entrap me propels me into the shadows and to the Wall, slamming my chest, my face against it, scraping my cheek against the rough concrete surface.

I don't scream, because I know no one will help me. And it can make it worse. It can excite them, drive them to be rougher, to attempt and draw out more screams. No, silence is better.

My studies in xenolinguistics, in Professor Veleen's class, have taught me that one should respect the customs of the society, the culture in which one finds oneself, even if one does not always agree.

This is the way of this society. **My** broken society. I am a woman; I am no one's wife. Therefore these men are fully within their rights to do this. This is how it's been for centuries.

I can only hope Commander Spock is understanding when I'm late.

The doctor grasps my arms, pulling them behind me. He laughs. "Looks like someone's already had fun with you, doll." He tightens his hands around my bruised wrists and I can't hold back a cry. He leans into me, pressing me against the Wall and breathing harshly into my ear. "Think you could do a favor for me and my friends here?" He doesn't wait for an answer, but his free hand pushes my skirt up around my waist and tugs at my underwear, tearing them from my hips.

No amount of change will stop this behavior. The Empire will fall, can fall, if the Resistance is successful, but the men will not change. Not for generations. It is ridiculous to hope for anything else.

My eyes slam shut and I fight to vanish from my mind, to separate myself from reality. But it's so difficult. My mind is transported back to the alleys, the dingy rooms, the Admiral's prison. Where the men took everything from me and laughed when I begged to leave something of myself intact.

The doctor's hand brushes across my ass and I crash into those alleys once more.

The man, whose face I don't remember, gripped my hips painfully and thrust into me. I said nothing; I did not cry out. I did nothing when he rested his arm on the back of my neck, pressing my face painfully into the rough brick wall, and his thrusts became harder and harder. He panted into my ear, asking if it was good for me, too. I wanted to scream. No! No, it was not good for me. I felt the delicate flesh between my legs giving in and tearing under his cruel thrusts. I didn't fight it, because I couldn't. He came inside of me, grunting into my ear. He pulled out of me and called to his friends. Before I could breath, another man gripped me and thrust his prick into me. Two more came after him. When they were finished, they left me in that alley in a pool of my tears and blood and their semen, leaking out of me and down my legs.

The sound of a zipper being released draws me back to the here and now. How I wish it didn't. But where in my mind could I go? When have I been happy? When have I been safe? How I wish my memories were cheery. A place to escape, not another place to be pulled into the undertow.

The doctor rubs his dick on my ass, stimulating himself.

I brace for the pain of his penetration, squeezing my eyes shut.

But it doesn't come.

I hear a solid footfall followed frantic shuffling of less sure feet and a zipper being closed.

"May I inquire as to what it is you are doing?"

Commander Spock.

My eyes fly open but otherwise I don't move. I'm still in the grasps of this stranger, whose face I have not yet seen clearly.

"We're just having a little fun, Commander," the doctor's voice drawls.

I wonder if the Commander recognizes me. If he knows it is me whom the man has pinned to the Wall. If he cares.

"I believe that you have orders to be carried out. This is not the time for frivolous activity. Nor the place."

I'm released, the man drawing away from me. But I don't turn around. I don't want to see him. I don't want to know what he looks like. I want my only image of him to be the distant sight of him. I want to forget he happened.

"Of course, sir." The doctor and his companions retreat and I fight to restrain my sob of relief.

Commander Spock places his hand on my shoulder and I jump. I was not expecting him to touch me in public. I turn slowly.

His eyes widen slightly, telling me that he was not aware that it was me that at those men's mercy. "Nyota?" His voice is a whisper, kept low to prevent those men from overhearing.

I drop my gaze. I can't look at him. Instead, I look at his uniform. There's blood on it. Again. Blue, this time. It almost blends with the blue of his uniform, except that it is brighter. I wonder if he knows there's blood on his uniform. How does he walk the streets wearing blood-stained clothing? How does he live with himself?

"Come with me."

I nod and follow him, leaving those men behind.

He takes me to his apartment.

Yes, I know what he wants.

And I'll give it to him without question.

The door slides closed behind me, lock engaging. I reach for the back of my dress, my fingers grasping the zipper. I know what he wants, so I need to do it. I'm on auto-drive.

I have not escaped the horrors of my life. I am still living the life of a prisoner, the life I've vowed to escape. Yes, I enjoy the pleasure he wrings out of my body, but underneath it all, I'm still his to use.

That's why he's brought me here. That's why he always wants me here. To relieve his sexual frustrations so that he may function in society, in his duty.

He grabs my shoulders—to stop me?—but I jerk out of his touch.

"Nyota."

I shake my head and unzip the dress. It falls to the ground, pooling around my feet. This is the way it's supposed to be. I'm standing in front of him, wearing nothing but my heels and my bruises.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't do anything. He just watches, his head tilted to the side. Like I'm some kind of experiment. Like I'm a specimen under his microscope. I'm intriguing to him. What does that mean? Am I intriguing now?

I approach him, wrapping my fingers around the sash at his waist. I untie it and pull it from his body. I don't see where I throw it, and I don't care. I reach for the buttons the blue uniform top.

He grabs my hands. "Nyota." His voice is persistent, the cadence gentle.

I shiver and unbutton his top and push it over his shoulders, letting it fall to the ground behind him. I drop my hands to the waistband of his pants.

He pulls away from me. "No."

I shake my head again and look at him. He's blurry through a haze of tears I didn't even realize was falling. Why am I crying? I press my naked body against his chest. Leaning up, I brush my lips against his. "Isn't this what you want? Don't you want to fuck me?"

He opens his mouth but then closes it. He reaches out to me with a single outstretched hand but then drops it. He's hesitating. I don't know why.

He steps backward.

I step toward him and latch onto his waistband again. It needs to come off. The wetness blurs my eyes and I reach up and angrily swipe at my eyes before dropping my hands back on his pants. I unbutton and unzip them. I shove them and his underwear down his legs.

He's flaccid. That won't do. I wrap my hand around his cock and pump up and down.

Commander Spock grabs my hand, intertwining his fingers though mine, and pulls my hand away from his cock. "No, Nyota. Not tonight."

I look at him and he holds my gaze, his face a careful mask of calmness, serenity, while his eyes rage. "This is what you wanted, isn't it?" My voice wobbles.

He says nothing. He just stares at me. His free hand brushes my cheek and I wince, his fingers aggravating the scrape the doctor gave me.

My body shakes. In repressed anger? Arousal? Fear? I don't know. He doesn't say anything. Why isn't he saying anything?

"Please," I whisper. My voice cracks. I feel like I'm cracking. What am I begging for? Why isn't he giving it to me?

"No, Nyota."

"Please." I want to forget. I want to forget my past. I want to forget those men. Forget Gaila, Robau, **him**. I want to forget everything. It's so twisted; it's so messed up. I shouldn't be asking him for this. I shouldn't be asking him for anything. I should want to run away from him. But I have nowhere else to go. I can't go to Robau. He's too dangerous. I can't return to the streets. They're dangerous, too.

Is the mission, Robau's mission worth all this pain? Is it worth my sanity? Would it even change anything? For the society to change, there needs to be compassion. I haven't seen any. Everywhere I turn, the men are vicious, the women are too scared for themselves to protect others. Even Robau has harmed the woman who loves him.

My breathing hitches in my chest. "Please." I collapse against him and he wraps his arms tightly around my body. I sob into his chest, before I even realize it. Clinging to him as though he is my lifeline, my road to freedom. But he's not. He can't be. He's just another jailor for me. I am his prisoner.

My sobs are harsh, wracking my body painfully. I have cried with him before, but nothing like this. I feel like I'm dying. I sag against him. I don't want to stand anymore.

He lowers us to the floor, his arms wrapped tightly around me, a hand around my naked waist, another entangling itself in my hair. He brushes his lips across my forehead and presses his face against my cheek. There is nothing awkward in his touch. Not this time, not like my first night in this place. He clings to me as much as I cling to him. It's as if he's trying to hold me together, keep me shattering into a million pieces.

I crawl into his lap, burying myself into his arms. He tightens his grip.

I sob.

There's nothing else I can do.


	15. The Entrapment and Deception of a Catharsis

My tears have long since ceased but I remain here, naked and in his arms. I say nothing. There's nothing **to** say. My head rests on his shoulder; my eyes are open, but I am looking at nothing. I draw random patterns on Commander Spock's nude chest, my fingers brushing through the light smattering of hair. His arms tighten around me; a hand around my back, another through my hair. His grasp is comforting. It shouldn't be. But it is.

When you've lived the life I have, it becomes difficult to draw comfort from anyone. I can't get it from my parents, the two people who should be able to comfort me when I need it. I can't get it from them because they betrayed me. I don't even know if they live. I don't want to know. I think I mentioned that before. I forget. Sometimes, when I was trapped in the grasps of that Admiral, the one whose life I took, the one who took my life...I sometimes thought about my parents back then. I sometimes dreamed that they would come for me. That my mother would burst through that door when the Admiral moved on top of me, taking his pleasure, and take me back home, a desperate apology on her lips. I would have forgiven her then. I dreamed it. But it never happened. But how could she decide to do that to me? How could my father? How do two parents decide that their daughter wasn't wife material—who decides that?—and therefore should be some stranger's whore? How could they have done that to me?

I remember being happy, smiling, laughing. I remember that. It's been so long since I've been happy. I remember having friends, too. We were all so young and naïve. We spent hours planning our perfect, but imaginary weddings with our perfect, but imaginary, husbands. Until, one by one, they all disappeared. I hope they went to husbands, but I don't know. I was the last one to leave. I don't know if it was because my parents were hesitant to give me away or because they were simply waiting for the best offer.

I don't want to think about them anymore.

Gaila gave me comfort, I'll admit. But it was, more often than not, comfort of a sexual nature. We'd draw smiles, sighs, laughter from one another as we'd engage in intimate touches and caresses. But it didn't mean anything. Not really. She loved Robau. And I vowed to never let my heart control me. I never allowed myself to grow close to someone. Because it never lasts.

Yes, sincere comfort from others becomes a rarity. A thing of beauty to be upheld and admired. A thing to be cherished.

That sounds strange coming from me, doesn't it? When I don't want to grow close to anyone, I still want, I still crave someone's touch, someone's comfort. I guess it's only a human thing.

And Commander Spock's arms are wound tightly around me and it comforts me. It shouldn't. After everything he has done to me, it shouldn't. But it does. I don't know if that's because I've been so deprived for so long or simply because he's the one who caught me when I stumbled. I don't care.

It won't last. I know it won't. It can't.

I'm so tired. My eyes close. Then open. I'm tired but I don't want to sleep. I fear I may see them in my sleep. That I may be unable to escape them in my dreams. They haunt me. Always.

Those men by the Wall, the southern doctor's hands on me, his prick rubbing against me. The countless faceless men in countless dark alleys. The Admiral, the one I killed. And my parents. Yes, they will haunt me. They will not allow me to rest.

"Nyota, you must sleep." Commander Spock's quiet voice sends me reeling back to reality.

I shake my head, burying myself further into his grasp. No, I can't sleep. I'll see them.

"Nyota." He's whispering into my ear, his warm breath brushing the strands of hair from my cheek. "You are exhausted. It is illogical to force your body to work through your exhaustion. You will endanger yourself."

Tears blur my eyes and I bury my face into his chest.

I wonder what we would have been like if we were in another universe. Some parallel universe where nothing was like it is here. I wonder if I would have been a normal happy young woman on the verge of her career. I wonder if we would have met. Would Commander Spock have been different in that imaginary universe? Would he have been kind? Gentle? I wonder if we would have been drawn to one another. I wonder if we would have fallen in love.

But it's ridiculous to wonder about what-if's. We don't live in that utopian universe I've created in my mind. We live in this one. And in this one, Commander Spock is still in control. He still has power over me. And I can't allow myself to forget that, even if he's holding me the way he is, as if he cares. As if we are lovers. Mutual lovers.

No, I can't allow myself to fall for him. Not like Gaila did with Robau. I've seen what happens with that. And I don't want to feel that pain when the reality comes back.

I pull away. He hesitates, tightening his grip on me, then relaxes his hold on me, allowing me to separate myself from him.

Almost immediately, I want back in his arms, but I must not. I must not allow myself to cave. My gaze drops to my wrists. The dark and angry bruises he gave me while pounding into my pussy, so engulfed in his anger, his frustration, and his lust that he didn't hear my cries. They help steel my resolve. I push away from him and get to my feet.

I move to the door and I hear him rising behind me, but I don't turn to look.

My dress is still on the floor in front of the door. I bend down and retrieve it. I want to burn it. I don't want to put it on. It smells like him. The doctor from the South. I cringe.

"Nyota?"

I pull the dress on, zipping it up in the back. I look around for my underwear before I remember. They were torn from my body and now lay in a tattered heap outside the Wall.

Tears burn. But I don't let them fall.

"I must request that you remain here for the night."

I freeze, my back to him, my front to the door. Why? God, why is he doing this now? I lose my battle and my tears fall anew. I glance upwards, fighting the fresh sobs desperate to escape my body. I sobbed in his arms; I broke. And now...

He approaches me, his feet light on floor. I don't turn to look at him. I don't want him to see my new tears. It's bad enough that he's seen my mental collapse. It shouldn't have happened. I shouldn't have allowed it to happen. What occurred by the Wall was normal. It was the way things were. I shouldn't have allowed myself to worry about it. It happened before, several times, in the past. And I never...I never allowed it to get to me. Or maybe I convinced myself that it didn't get to me. I don't know. I don't care to know. All I know is that Commander Spock wants me to stay here.

It can only mean one thing.

He stands behind me and places his arms around my waist. His touch is hesitant, not like it was mere moments ago, when he held me on the floor. "I wish for you to remain here."

"Why?" I ask, my voice a whisper. I look at my bruised wrists, held awkwardly in front of me. I don't want to stay here, but he wants me to. So I must. Because I don't know what he'll do if I don't. He's in charge of Special Forces; he could turn me in before I realize what happened. I think of every man here—him, Robau, Pike and even Kirk—he is the one who could hurt me the most.

"You are not in any mental state to return to your dormitory alone."

I hesitate, holding my breath.

"I am not seeking sexual favors this evening, Nyota. I am merely concerned with your well-being."

I release the air in my lungs in a slow sigh. I can't allow myself to grow too close to him. "It's nothing you should concern yourself with."

His arms slide from my waist and I turn around to look at him, brushing the tears from my eyes.

"Explain." He holds his arms loosely by his sides. His fingers twitch, as though he wants to reach out to me again. But he resists.

I hold my wrists out, shaking my head. "I don't think I have to."

His eyes follow my gaze to my wrists and he stares at them. And I grow uncomfortable, watching him. The intensity in his gaze... I don't know what he's thinking. I don't know what he's going to say. He did this to me. He gave me these bruises. It's important to remember that.

He raises his eyes to meet mine. "Perhaps you are correct. I shouldn't concern myself, as I have no right. However, I find that I do."

"Why?"

He remains silent for several moments, his brows furrowed deeply. When he finally answers, he shakes his head slightly. "I do not have a logical answer to your query."

"What about an illogical one?" I whisper, dropping my gaze to his chest.

He takes a deep breath, holds it, then releases it slowly. "None that I am prepared to give at this time."

I nod, my eyes jumping around the room, looking anywhere but at him. Tears sting. I know what he's talking about. He's eluded to it before. His fascination with me. How I _intrigue_ him. Am I just some science experiment for him? Is he trying to see how long it takes before I collapse into a broken shell of myself? I've asked myself all these questions so many times since we started this fucked up, twisted, unequal relationship. This power play. Do I really mean anything to him? I don't know if I want to risk it finding out.

"It is late, past curfew. It would be logical to remain here, lest you are discovered on your journey back to your dormitory."

He's right. I know it. He knows it.

I take a breath. "Fine."

He bends down and retrieves his pants, which I had stripped him of during my breakdown. He pulls them on.

I look away, embarrassment heating my cheeks, my ears. That certainly doesn't make any sense, as we have seen each other naked countless times. We've touched, we've fucked so many times. But never before have **I** attempted to initiate and never before has he said 'no.' **Now** he is _concerned_ about mymental health. Now, he is worried that I am about to fall. Is it because of what happened at the Wall? Or is it because I tried to take initiative, in a desperate attempt to forget? I just wanted to forget. And he wouldn't let me. Why does he care?

"Are you hungry?"

My eyes jump back to him. He stands in front of me, dressed in his trousers, hands behind his back. As though nothing has happened.

I shake my head.

He gives a curt nod of acknowledgement. Then: "Perhaps it would be to your benefit to discuss the event that occurred outside the Special Forces Headquarters."

Immediately, I tense. He is so blank, so cold, calculating. And so quickly. One moment, I think he understands, that he may finally _get_ it. But then, this. Now he wants to talk. "I don't want to talk about it."

He tilts his head to the side. "Why?"

I shrug. I feel helpless. I want to run. I want to run away from here. But I'm trapped. Trapped by a stupid curfew. A commander who uses my body for his pleasure. A law forbidding me to be here. A man who speaks of change but wants me to sacrifice my dignity, everything I am for him. I am trapped. Everywhere I turn. So utterly and completely trapped. What does he want from me? But I answer him. "It doesn't matter."

"That is illogical."

I scowl. "How is it illogical?"

"It matters, because you were clearly affected by the event."

I laugh. It's an ugly sound, marred by disgust, disbelief, cynicism. "It doesn't matter because that's my life!" I spin around, placing my back before him.

"Nyota –"

I look at him again. "You think that's a new experience for me? Did you think that you're my first sexual encounter? You're not, Commander. You're not the first to use me for my body. And you probably won't be the last. My parents sold me to some admiral. My father stood by and my mother held me down as he shoved his dick into me. Explain the logic in that to me! Explain to me how it was logical for my parents to passively sit back and allow their only daughter to be used by this stranger I had never met before. I was sixteen! I was still a child! You think what happened tonight is the worst thing that ever happened to me? I've spent years with strange men shoving their dicks into my mouth, my pussy. Some of them I allowed—I needed their money—but most I didn't."

I run my hands through my hair, fighting and losing the battle with my tears. I did not think I could cry anymore. "And I have no choice because your **precious** Empire has declared it _necessary_ _ for me to endure, to suffer all this because men are...men are **so** * weak they can't control themselves. They can't function unless they've robbed a woman of everything she is. Where'sthe logic in that?"

He says nothing. He just stands in front of me, the epitome of a stoic. The clenching of his jaw is his only movement. But it's so aggravating, so frustrating. His apparent lack of concern. Why does he want me to talk? Why does he keep questioning me?

"And you"—His eyes widen a sliver—"You told me you wouldn't hurt me. You told me you would keep me safe if I gave myself to you. And I did. I did it because I was terrified. I didn't want to die. I didn't want to be hurt. But you hurt me and you keep hurting me. And I hate you for it. And I hate myself for giving into you because I told myself that I would never do that again. But I did. And I keep doing it. I keep coming back. And you keep hurting me and I keep coming back. Because the next moment, it's like...I can almost pretend that you care. You do **this** and you hold me and you let me cry. I don't know why. I don't understand why I let you use me like that. I mean, why? **Why?** "

Spent, I fall to my knees. I thought I couldn't cry anymore, but the tears keep coming and coming.

"I apologize for any undue stress I have placed upon you."

"I hate you." I sob into my hands.

He inhales deeply but remains silent for several long moments. "When you are able, you may retire to my sleeping quarters. I must meditate." He steps around me, careful not to touch me.

* * *

It's kind of amazing how any forward momentum—if that's what it was—we have can be so quickly stalled. How quickly he reverts back to the cold-hearted bastard he really is. How quickly he brushes everything under the rug. How quickly he forgets, ignores. How quickly that fragile bridge between us erodes and collapses.

* * *

Two weeks pass before he touches me again. And when he does, its laced with an urgency, a tinge of self-loathing—his, not mine—and he seems distant, even as his cock is buried deep inside me, even as he draws out my orgasms, even as I cling to him, because, God help me, I _cling_ to him. On second thought, maybe there's some self-loathing on my part, too.

When he's not fucking me, we spend our time together—he still wants me here; I don't know why—in silence. He meditates often, sitting in front of his * _asenoi*,_ hands in his lap. He doesn't speak to me, but he seems to drink in my presence. The silence is fine, I can deal with silence. But his gaze, his unwavering gaze upon me when I enter is unnerving. But I've grown used to it. I've had to. He's grown more haggard in his appearance. Dark circles are a constant presence under his bloodshot eyes. His once pristine Vulcan hairstyle is growing out and he doesn't seem bothered to fix it. He still arrives to his apartment in a bloodied uniform. And maybe that's the source of his unease. I don't know. Because, like I said, he won't talk to me. But it seems like the uniforms are becoming bloodier, the body count is increasing.

I'm scared.

Of him.

For him.

I haven't decided yet. I haven't decided yet if I should be, if I should waste my concern on him.

I don't think he sleeps. That would explain the dark circles, the bloodshot eyes, wouldn't it? I know that Vulcans do not require as much sleep as humans, but I still don't think he's sleeping at all. When he's done fucking me, he rolls out of bed and meditates. And he is awake when I wake in the morning, when I leave to return to the dorm, to return to classes.

He never mentions my breakdown after the Wall. I don't either because I want to forget it. He never mentions my exclamation of hatred towards him, even though he seems to have grown more distant, if that was possible. But he doesn't let it stop him from fucking me. I guess I don't let it stop me from seeking pleasure in his actions as well.

* * *

We reached our breaking point finally. It was my fault. Maybe. I guess. It was time for my meeting with Gaila. So I went. Dressed as a man, a cadet, because I didn't want to get caught again. Never again.

But I never made it to that meeting.

Because there wasn't any point.

It happened when I came across the Wall.

And there she was, blood staining her green body, her shock of red hair peeping under the sheet. Swaying gently in the breeze.

I faltered. I stumbled. I froze.

There she was.

There would be no meeting.

I don't remember how I managed to get back to Commander Spock's apartment. I was in such shock, such despair that I can't recall how it happened. But it did.

He was there when I entered.

Blood on his uniform.

Her blood.

"Why?" I asked, finally allowing the tears fall down my cheeks unchecked. I didn't care. I didn't care if he saw my tears. "Why did you kill her?"

He stood more erect, his arms held firmly at his sides. "You are speaking of the Orion?"

I stepped closer to him. "Her name was Gaila! Did you know that? Or was she just some *body* to you?"

"I was following a direct order."

"Why?" I cried, hitting him on the chest.

He remained so still, so stoic in front of me, uncaring. Not a crack in that cold Vulcan veneer. Though in retrospect, a storm of emotions bubbled under that veneer, barely visible in his stricken eyes, waiting, searching for a crack, a fissure from which to erupt. "The Orion in question was a member of the Rebellion. She was a traitor to the Empire. I am bound by my duty to the Empire and to Starfleet to carry out the law. And the law explicitly states that all traitors are to be executed. No exception."

I slapped him. He was so cold. How could I have hoped for anything else?

He grabbed my hands and propelled me into the wall behind me, pressing my hands tightly above my head.

Glaring at him, I asked, "When is it my turn?" When will it be my turn to hang from the hooks? When will it be my turn to endure his knives, his fists, his chains?

"Do not make me report you for assaulting a superior officer, Cadet."

I dropped my gaze, tears falling. "You're a bastard."

Silence. It stretched so long that I ventured a look at him, at his cold hard face.

"And you are a whore."

His words were like a punch to my gut. Despite our numerous encounters, despite my numerous moments of calling myself that, he never had. Until now. It hurt. It burned. Just like his callousness about Gaila. I think it was in that moment that I realized, remembered that I was dealing with an emotionless alien, an alien that saw emotions as illogical. It was the first time I truly hated him, even though I yelled that to him before. I spit on him, watching in sick satisfaction as my spit rolled down his cheek.

He didn't react to my action as I expected. I had expected violence in retaliation. I expected **something**. But got nothing.

He released me and I fell to the ground, sobbing. He retreated to the door, wiping the spittle from his face. "Perhaps, it would be best if you are absent from my quarters when I return."

He left his quarters without another word. His shoulders square, his posture straight. As if he was steeling himself for what lies ahead for him behind the Wall. Staunchly ignoring me, my tears. I yelled at him, telling him how I hated him over and over. Asking how he could have done that.

I haven't seen him since.

That was one week ago.


	16. The Solitude of Revealed Secrets

I did not initially notice his absence. I know, I know. How could I not notice that he didn't order me to his quarters so he could fuck me? How could I miss the fact that I went an entire weekend left alone in my dorm room, especially since he typically expects me to remain in his quarters for the two days? The answer is that I don't know. I don't have an answer. I wish I did. I wish I had noticed.

I don't know why, though.

Why would I wish something like that? So he could take me with him? Why would I wish that? Like we're some sort of star-crossed lovers? We're not lovers. I am his, I suppose. He's not mine though. He's made that clear. He belongs to no one. Well, maybe he belongs to the Empire. He certainly seems to enjoy—maybe enjoy is the wrong word; it denotes emotion, after all—doing what the Empire orders him. (And maybe I'm being unfair; I've seen the sleepless eyes, the unkempt appearance. But I don't want to think about that now.) Yes, he may belong to the Empire, but he doesn't belong to me. I own nothing, and certainly not him.

But I digress.

I became aware of the Commander's absence through rumors floating across the campus. Officers and cadets discussed his mysterious absence. While he wasn't my professor for Andorian anymore, he still appeared on campus for a computer science class that he taught, when he wasn't busy...executing the prisoners at the Wall. He's a popular topic of discussion amongst the student body anyway. Because of his innate alienness—we don't have many alien professors—and because of his ruthless reputation.

Apparently he has been absent from that computer science class.

The cadets, his students, took great glee in postulating his absence. Their whispers could be heard throughout the campus halls.

No, he didn't know what was up. Neither did the cadet over there. That cadet hoped the Commander was deathly ill. Good riddance, he said. Another theorized that Commander Spock finally got laid—I turned bright red; I'm sure I did—and lost track of time. After the laughter settled—no one truly believed it—everyone threw out more theories for the Vulcan's absence. Each one became more and more outlandish. I won't bother retelling them. They're not important. Because I'm sure none of them were true.

I remained silent, which wasn't completely out of character for me to do so. But I had no ideas to explain the Commander's absence. He has said nothing to me after I confronted him about Gaila. I wish he did. I wish I knew he was leaving. Again...why do I care?

Because with him gone from the Academy, where does that leave me?

He simply left. That's all I know.

* * *

Three days after the latest discussion in the hallways, I stand outside the Commander's quarters, bag slung over my shoulders, heart racing in my chest. I'm curious as to why he suddenly disappear. And concerned. I guess there's no point in denying that. I'm concerned. I'm concerned about his sudden absence. He did not tell me anything.

But then, he doesn't *really* say anything to me, does he? His conversations with me after my breakdown, after I declared my hatred for him haven't stretched beyond ordering me to strip. To get down on my knees. To take him in my mouth. To spread my legs. I guess I ruined any forward movement we were making. I don't know. Because he never really talked to me after. But I guess my presence was still important to him. Because he always wanted me there. I don't know why. Maybe it's a comfort thing? My mind spins wild speculation about it all the time. Maybe he abhors the Wall, his actions. Maybe he feels powerless against the orders he's been given and he needs me there. He needs me there to dominate, to feel like he has control over *something* in his life.

Maybe if he was human, if he had emotions—and as I think that, a part of my mind knows it's not fair; he *has* emotions...I think—but maybe he's so numb. Maybe the killing has made him numb to everything else. And he just wants to *feel* again, feel something, anything. And so, he uses me to feel. Maybe he's trying to draw out some emotion buried so far inside; maybe he's trying to shove his memories of the screaming faces into the back of his mind, so he doesn't see them anymore.

Or maybe, if he was human, he's trying to convince himself that there are feelings there. That what we're doing with one another isn't a power struggle or a desperate means to survive, but an emotional connection. Maybe he's convinced himself that he loves me, that I love him. A twisted fucked up love story in a twisted fucked up world. Maybe he's convinced himself of that, damn the illogic of it.

Maybe if he was human, he's trying to do all that.

But since he's not, I don't know.

But it's like we're both dancing around each other, afraid to...I don't know...

My eyes close. I don't want to think about that.

I reach out toward the panel on the side of the door. But it slides open before I can press the button. I gasp, surprised. I wasn't expecting the door to still open at my presence. I figure he would have locked the door, preventing anyone's entry.

Maybe he didn't leave the campus. Maybe he's not gone. Maybe he's ill. Maybe...

I enter, carefully and quietly, in case he's on call with another Admiral or someone of equal or greater importance. I place my bag on the floor next to the door. The door slides close and I call his name out, looking down the short hallway where it opened into the living area and not seeing him seated at his desk, which he positioned to gain a clear view of the door. But he doesn't answer. I walk further into his quarters, quickly peeking around the place. He's not in the kitchen, the living area; he's not in his bedroom or the bathroom.

He's not anywhere.

The place is empty.

I release a slow breath. I couldn't tell you if it was one of relief or concern. Relief because I don't have to lie on his bed for an indeterminate time. Concern because this seems very out of character. That thought immediately causes me to roll my eyes. What do I know about his character? Violent? Unpredictable? Definitely. But other than that and an apparent affection for his dead mother, and an apparent unwavering loyalty to the Empire, despite the bloodshot eyes, the gray circles under his eyes, I know nothing. He's made sure of that. I don't know if disappearing suddenly, without word, is normal for him.

I stand in the middle of the living area, hands on my hips. I honestly don't know what to do. I take a closer look at everything around me. Really, the place is kind of a mess. For him, I mean. It would still be considered most pristine for a human. But for him...

Take his desk, for example.

I move toward it. PADDs—those forsaken PADDs from his desk drawer—are stacked haphazardly on the top of his desk, on top of loose leaf papers—not everything is committed to the electric devices. Slowly, I open the lap drawer—the same one that gave me such torment so long ago—and peer in.

The photo is missing.

My eyes widen and I quickly close the drawer. It closes with a loud thud, resonating in the silence.

I'm not sure what to make of the photo's absence. His behavior regarding it implied that a great importance is placed upon it, but his admittance that he didn't look at it for over five years implies a sort of detachment, of nonchalance.

Or maybe it implies desperation to forget. And his keeping it implies desperation to remember.

I can't, for the life of me, understand why it's gone...

Unless—

Maybe someone else—someone, not me—discovered its existence. Maybe he's not supposed to have it, an act of rebellion based on an emotional need to remember. Maybe they took it from him. Maybe he moved it. Maybe he took it with him...wherever he went.

I walk away from the desk and head for the bedroom. Maybe there's something in there that I missed on my first cursory look. My first time through the quarters, I wasn't looking for anything in particular, just him. There really isn't anything out of place there.

Unless you count the scattered uniform on the floor, covered in green blood. Concealed in the shadows of the room.

I halt and stare at it. My heart races in my chest. Why does he have so much blood on his uniform, so much more than I've seen before? Green. It could be Vulcan—it could be his—or it could be Romulan. The Romulans are not a part of the Empire, but we still deal with them on a regular basis. We fight with them. We capture them. They capture us. Typical skirmishes over the Neutral Zone.

But the blood alarms me.

I walk out of the bedroom, from the living room and head for the door. He's not here. And I already know there's nothing of interest here. I pass the kitchen on my way and cast my gaze toward the counters, the sink.

What I saw caused me to halt.

More emerald green blood covers the faucet, stains the sink.

It seems rather unusual, bizarre for him to leave the kitchen unclean. Just as unusual as it is for him to leave his clothing scattered on the floor.

I enter the kitchen. I peer closer at the green stains. It seems like he left in a hurry. I've grown accustomed to seeing him scrubbing his blood-stained hands in the sink. But I've never seen him leave the stains. He always swiped at them just as angrily as he did his own flesh.

The door suddenly opens and I gasp, jumping away from the sink.

Captain Pike enters, dressed in his golden uniform. I immediately salute, holding a shaking hand out before me. He freezes when he sees me, and then returns my salute quickly.

"I thought I heard someone enter."

"Sir." I drop my hand and clasp my hands behind my back, hiding my shaking limbs from view.

"May I ask what you're doing in Commander Spock's quarters, Cadet?" His voice is stern. I must answer him.

I take a deep breath, a feeble attempt to calm my nerves. "Sir, I was scheduled to meet with the Commander for tutoring. I was unaware of his absence." I hope he can't tell I'm lying through my teeth. What's the punishment for lying to a commanding officer, to Captain Pike, who may very well know who I am already? The agony booth? Expulsion? In this Empire, with this regime? Death, probably.

I don't know if he's an ally. If he can be trusted. Robau did not tell me about him for a reason. I just don't know what that reason is.

Regardless, I don't like him. I don't trust him. He frightens me.

He nods and approaches the little island counter. He casually grabs a little salt shaker in his hand and looks at it, turning it around in his hand carefully; it's a curious shape, possibly resembling something Vulcan. He looks at me slowly. "And how were you able to enter if he's not here?"

I flounder briefly for an answer, my mouth opening and closing. No doubt I look like a startled guppy. Finally: "I don't know, sir. The door opened when I arrived. I thought he was inside." Not a total lie. I entertained the idea when I first decided to come here that maybe he was still on campus, holed away in his quarters. I was surprised when the door opened and he wasn't on the other side.

Captain Pike studies me intently and I grow anxious under his unwavering gaze. He sets the salt shaker back on the kitchen counter then leans against it, crossing his arms. "I had no idea you two were so well acquainted that he saw fit to grant you open access to his quarters."

Well acquainted. Yeah, I guess you could certainly call it that. We're certainly well acquainted with each other's bodies. He fucks me nearly every day. Every day that our schedules allow. There's a definite familiarity with each other. Definitely more than a passing acquaintance. And yet it still is. I don't really know more about him than that precious little he bestowed so long ago and he hasn't sought to know me more either. Our familiarity doesn't extend past our bodies.

When did I want it to become more than that? *Do* I want more than that?

"Neither did I, sir."

He chuckles, as if to indicate amusement, but there's something bitter in his expression. Something akin to disappointment. I recognize that look. The same one my father wore on more than one occasion. Captain Pike is disappointed in Commander Spock. But why? Why would he be disappointed in the only alien who has risen through the ranks of a decidedly xenophobic organization? The Commander, who now heads the Special Forces and is in charge of deciding the fates of the Empire's worst. I'd figure a man like Pike would be proud. He continues. "I don't even have free access and I raised the boy."

Then how did he enter? I could ask him that. I could confront him on the issue. If he's an ally, he could reveal himself, he could tell me. But I don't. Because he scares me so much.

So I focus on the second half of his statement. A statement that has confused and intrigued me.

"Sir?" He raised him? What could have possibly happened to warrant this man to take on a Vulcan child? What happened to the Commander's father? Did he meet the same fate as his mother? But Spock didn't say anything about that. But I guess that doesn't mean anything. Maybe his father, his real father, is still alive on Vulcan, meditating in the quiet of a cave or something, wondering what has become of his son. Would his father be proud of him? The brutality, the violence, the coldness of his son? No, I don't think his father would be proud. The Commander is everything a Vulcan is not supposed to be. I wonder if Commander Spock thinks of his biological father. He must remember him. He remembers his mother and she died when he was only four. It's only logical to conclude that he remembers his father as well, right?

"Damn right. I certainly did. Taught him everything he knows. Man, did he make me proud. He inspired *me*. Until that fucking assignment on Vulcan."

"What do you mean, sir?"

He shrugs his shoulders and sighs. He falls silent. I guess he realized how much he's saying to a cadet. He tilts his head and I grow uncomfortable. "There's something familiar about you."

My stomach clenches. This could be it. "How do you mean, sir?"

"I feel like I've seen you before."

"You have, sir. You were the one who recruited me to Starfleet." I don't know if he is bluffing, stringing me along because I have not been officially informed, or if he truly doesn't know me. If he truly has forgotten me, then am I still safe? Am I safe if he is pretending now? I was relatively unimportant then, having not completely proven myself. Yes, I had the record that Gaila, under the watchful eye of Robau, meticulously fabricated down to the tiniest details. And it was an impressive, albeit realistic, record. Something to catch the eye of a recruiting officer. And it certainly caught Captain Pike's eye.

Enough so that he snuck me in, that he agreed to work with Robau. Right? Gaila told me he was involved. And somehow, I was able to bypass all those physicals, those exams that would have revealed my true identity before I even set foot on campus.

So *someone* snuck me in. And it had to be Pike.

He shakes his head. "No. It's something else...you wouldn't happen to have a sister by any chance?"

I stare at him for a moment. I'm pretty sure my heart stops. He *is* playing me, isn't he? He already knows my true identity and is now testing me, waiting for me to fuck up. Right? Waiting to make his move. But I can't let my fear steer me. I take a slow breath then answer him in what I pray is a steady voice. "No, sir."

He looks at me for a long dreadful moment. And steps closer, towering over me. "No, you don't, do you, Nyota?"

I gasp. My hands clench tightly behind my back; my eyes dart towards the closed door. I want to dash out of this place. I want the Commander to suddenly walk through that door and all conversation cease.

He reaches out and caresses my cheek; I flinch under his touch, my eyes squeezing closed. "Time to drop pretenses, don't you think? Stop pretending. Yes, I know who you are, Nyota Uhura. The pretty little thing Richard Robau wanted me to sneak in here." His hand drifted from my cheek down my body, down my side, skirting across my legs, and for a brief moment I am thankful that I am wearing my cadet uniform; I'm thankful for the feeble protection it gives me from his wandering touch. "You know, I risked everything to get you in here. My career. My life. I expect some sort of payment. Robau promised me payment. I've waited for four years for that payment."

I'm panting. But not in arousal, not like with the Commander. I'm terrified, fighting the insane desire to laugh, to run away. In my mind, I see him, not the Commander, hovering above me, pounding into me. The glint in his eyes now, at this very moment...that glint says he'd be rough, uncaring. That glint in his eyes that says he'd take glee in my pain. I know that look he has in his eyes when he talks about fucking me. The Admiral I murdered had it. Kirk has it. And the image of him fucking me, instead of the Commander...I feel faint, my heart racing so quickly in my chest. Please, God, please don't let him. I would die. I know I would. Because if he didn't kill me...I would. Tears sting. "I'm...I'm sorry, sir."

He leans in close, cupping the back of my neck. I feel his hot breath on my mouth. Gasping, I plea, "Please, don't." I turn my face away, squeezing my eyes shut. I don't have any other defense. If he truly wants me, he will and probably can overpower me. Struggle though I might, I won't be able to stop him. Not in the end.

He looks at me some more, then says, "Yeah. Of course." He takes a breath. "The Commander better hope his little whore doesn't drop by while he's away. If I see her again, she's mine."

The threat was obvious. I barely suppress a gasp. "Of-of course, sir." I look at the door. "May I leave, sir?"

He nods.

And I don't waste any time.


	17. The Corrosion of the Shining Knight

I manage to make it out of the door without breaking into a sprinting run. I walk to the turbolift and press the button, desperate to get out of this building before Pike changes his mind. I feel like I'm being set up, even though that thought is entirely ridiculous. I have no reason to feel that way. I don't even know why I do. But why does it feel like the Commander is being careless? Really, leaving his door to allow me entrance while he's not here? Careless. Forgetful. So un-Vulcan. I wonder if he did it on purpose. If he somehow knew I would still drop by and stand in front of his door. And watch it open.

I shouldn't have entered.

Then I wouldn't have encountered Captain Pike. He would not have placed his hands on me, threaten me. Or at least, he wouldn't have done it there. Now. I have no doubt he would have eventually.

At least I know that he is the one who snuck me in. Somehow, that thought doesn't comfort me. Doesn't relax me. In fact, it puts me on edge more. He wants something from me. He wants me to pay him for his...sacrifice. And there is only one type of payment he seems willing to accept.

Something I don't want to give him. Something I don't want to give to anyone else. Ever.

I should have turned right around and left when the Commander didn't answer my call. I should not have entered and I should not have loitered after determining his absence. I shouldn't have stared at the blood... Why did he leave the blood behind? And so much of it? It's green. A part of me wonders if it didn't belong to one of his prisoners at the Wall. Maybe it didn't. Maybe it doesn't belong to an unknown alien at all. Maybe it's his.

There was a lot of blood.

And a disappearance not of his orchestrating would certainly explain the messy state of his quarters.

Maybe he was killed.

My heart seizes at that thought. And the turbolift opens. I shakily step inside. I lean against the wall, consciously focusing on my breathing. In. Out. In. Out.

Maybe he was killed.

I don't know why this thought terrifies me.

If he is dead, then I am once again alone here. No one but Captain Pike would know my secret. My true identity. I should be pleased with this. I would be able to continue my mission without fearing his sudden change of heart and subsequent report of me. I wouldn't have to worry about allowing him to fuck me. I wouldn't have to ask myself every day why I let him, why I yearn for it. I wouldn't have to see the blood on his hands anymore. I wouldn't have to think of what he does when he goes to the Wall, wondering who he's going to execute—murder—today. I wouldn't have to think about anything but my mission, whatever that truly is. I sometimes wonder; Robau's orders seem so fluid, always changing, and I'm always left in the wake, struggling to understand what he wants of me. With Commander Spock dead, I wouldn't have to wonder about a lot of things.

But...

I want him to be alive. I want him to come back. He is also my only emotional connection in this place, as twisted, as messed up as it is. As fucked up as it sounds. If he is dead, then I am once again alone here.

I don't want to be alone.

But I'm not. I'm not alone here. Commander Spock is not the only one to know my secret. Captain Pike. My skin still crawls from his touch.

Tears burn my eyes. I rub them furiously with the heels of my hands. Not the place for this. Never the place for this. I drop my head and wrap my arms around myself, trying to...I don't know.

The lift opens, having reached the ground floor, and I look up. I halt.

Kirk stands in front of me; a woman stands behind him, head down, hair covering her face. He smiles at me. It's not kind. He steps forward. I step back. I cringe at my weakness. I don't have anything to fear here, right? He surely wouldn't try anything here, where the officers lived. Not that the officers would really care, I chide myself. They don't care. They wouldn't care if he suddenly stripped me naked right here in the turbolift, revealing my feminine body. Hell, they'd probably join in.

He chuckled slightly. And took another step. The woman followed as was expected of her. She didn't meet my eyes, didn't even look up. Kirk entered the lift fully, pressing a finger into my uniformed linen-clad chest and backing me into the wall behind me. He towered above me, standing closely; his breath hot on my face.

"Is Captain Pike in?" He runs his finger down my chest, across my bound breasts.

My blood freezes and I don't look up at him—I am already so terrified of Pike, of the Commander's disappearance—instead I focus my attention to his chest. Praying that he's not about to discover my secret right here in the lift. Don't look up, don't look up. Don't let him see your fear. Don't let him see the vestiges of the tears. He'll jump. He wouldn't hesitate. I nod.

"Good." He steps to the side, giving me just enough room to make my escape.

Which I gladly do, releasing a long breath, fighting the urge to cry. I steal one final look at the woman. I wonder who she is. Do I know her? Probably not. Does she want this, what's surely coming to her? Who knows. I don't. I wouldn't want it. But, like I said, some women do. Some women are so beaten, so withdrawn that they don't fight anything. They don't fight the possibility of being used by two men—which I'm sure is what's about to happen—for a night. They don't question what life could be like if they weren't subjected to this life. Unlike this woman, I have experienced what life *could* be, if only for a brief moment, if only a lie fabricated by a mastermind to get me to comply, to agree with his mission. But I have an advantage over this woman. I've tasted that freedom, and I long for it. God, how I long for it. I look at that woman, blond hair draped in front of her face. I want her to look at me. I want her to see me. But she doesn't. She just stands beside Kirk in the lift, her scantily-clad body covered in bruises.

No, she's not a fighter.

She doesn't care.

She's about to be fucked by two men, used in ways I had escaped, had fought. Am **still** fighting, if I'm completely honest with myself. And she doesn't care. I can't decide if that's a blessing. Or a curse.

I would have fought. I have fought. I would rather be dead.

Or perhaps she is ignorant of other ways. Perhaps she doesn't know that there are some places that are safe, that care. That would protect her.

They do protect us, right? Robau is doing this to protect us, to safe us, right? I used to be so sure. Now...I'm not sure of anything other than the fact that Gaila is dead.

And Commander Spock is missing.

And I want him back.

I'm not sure why.

The door slides closed and she's gone. With Kirk. And Pike.

And with a dreadful tug on my heart, I must try to forget her, to not wish for her freedom.

I walk down this sidewalk again. Toward the whorehouse. The breeze rustles my pant legs, my large uniform top and I wish that I could make my uniform larger. I wish it would swallow me up. On campus, I am Benjamin Uhura, the xenolinguistics major who is accelerating to the top of his class and talks to no one. Off campus, I am a woman again. This is my secret. No, that **was** my secret. That **was** how I moved around the city. My uniform, ill-fitting as it is...this is how I move around the city, now.

I can't afford to take the risk of dressing as a woman again.

It would break me, I think.

I've already contacted Robau; Today I am to meet with him, discuss my progress. I suppress the urge to snort. Progress. What progress? The closest connection I had within Starfleet has vanished. Some say he's on leave. But that blood. So much of it.

No.

I think he's dead.

I should feel relief with that possibility.

But I don't.

Robau is not going to be happy. I know he's not. He'll be furious about another setback. Another hitch in his plans, whatever those plans truly are. I am going to be punished.

I know I am.

I'm terrified to go to this meeting. But I know of no way out of it. Not without risking his wrath.

I approach the Wall. I dread this long unending slab of concrete. I dread the bodies I'll see hanging from it today. But I only see one body today. This is unusual. Since Commander Spock took control, there's been a significant increase in fresh corpses. Corpses that are always removed before the stench becomes too much to stomach.

Today, one body.

Only one.

One body that becomes clearly the closer I come.

Emerald liquid stains his body, pouring from beneath the bag. Long slashes of green. Gashes. Bruises. All old. He was tortured. The smell, God, the smell. He's been here for a while. I feel bile rising in my throat.

The white bag stained green was placed haphazardly on his head; it doesn't completely encompass his head. Whoever strung him up didn't care. Or was in a rush. Or both.

I see the outline of a pointed ear, slightly curved at the tip.

Vulcan.

I halt, my breath trapped in my lungs. I'm afraid. Afraid to get any closer, even though I know I must.

It can't be him. It can't be.

Another step. I slowly move to stand in front of the hanging body.

Like all the other ones previously, this one is nude as well. Clothes are for dignity. I'm surprised they allow women to wear them out in public, those few times you see them out. The Admiral never allowed me to wear clothes. They just got in his way. Some of the women at the whorehouse don't wear them. Probably for the same reason.

And these bodies don't wear them.

They belong to the very dregs of our twisted society; that's what the Empire tells us anyway. They don't deserve the dignity of clothing.

I look at him. The cuts are jagged. The gashes deep. The bruises angry. The shoulders are too broad. The stomach not as lean, not as muscular. The hips, too wide. The body does not belong to Commander Spock. I can tell that clearly, so attuned to his body as I have become.

It's not the Commander.

I release a breath.

Of course, it's not. The execution of a high ranking officer would have been public knowledge. There would have been a gathering. An assembly. A public execution.

Yes, they only reserve those for executions they deem worthy of such spectacle. And the Commander's standing within Starfleet would have garnered such worth. And people would have attended, because they were forced to. People would have cheered. People would have cried, begged for his life. The executed are the heroes for the broken and beaten people.

No, this is not Spock.

It's somebody though.

I just don't know who.

The bouncer at the entrance of the whorehouse waves me in. He is familiar enough with my presence that he doesn't question me. Doesn't ask where I've been. He doesn't have any idea what I'm doing when I'm here—he knows I'm not one of their girls; he knows because he has seen me as a woman and as a man—but he doesn't question me. It's not his job. Not his place. Robau convinced the pimp to allow us to conduct our meetings here—I still don't know how he did that—and that's all the bouncer needs.

"He's already inside." He steps aside, allowing me to enter.

I nod, suddenly nervous. There's no telling how Robau will react to this latest development. With anger, I'm sure. I just don't know if he'll lash out at me. And that's my biggest source of anxiety. What is he going to do to me when he finds out?

I step through the door and walk down the short foyer until I enter a large atrium. Wide and open, with a large bar dominating the middle, this place is already busy. Men populate the room, surrounded by the pimp's numerous women. Several are in various stages of sexual intercourse—fucking; some of the women are moaning, some are crying. It's enough to make me cringe. I hate this place. Abhor it.

I spot Robau almost immediately. A statue among a rolling sea of rutting, fucking bodies. He's wearing another suit—he loves his suits—and leans casually, gracefully against the bar behind him. He nods toward me, his eyes narrow, and he motions for me to follow; he's already secured the room.

I follow, weaving past the undulating, thrusting bodies, ignoring the moans, the whimpers, the grunts.

We enter the room and Robau immediately seats himself on a chair placed before the bed. He motions toward the lumpy mattress, inviting—ordering—me to sit. I secure the lock on the door and do so, placing my hands in my lap. I look at him. I'm nervous, uncomfortable. I'm not used to doing these updates with him. It's usually Gaila. But I guess it won't be her anymore. She's dead. Spock killed her. I still want to know **how** she was arrested. Did Robau give her up?

Would he do that?

My heart races.

No, I shouldn't allow myself to think of him like that. He's not. He's not them. He is kind, gentle. He is my savior. My knight in shining armor in a world so dark, so harsh. He wouldn't. He's above such travesty.

I'm sure Janice thought so.

Gaila, too.

He sits before me, silent, stony. His posture in the chair is impeccable. Back straight. Legs crossed. Hands folded neatly on his thighs. But he's silent. What's he waiting for?

He lifts his eyebrows.

I take the chance and speak first. "Commander Spock is gone."

"Gone?"

I nod. "Yes, sir. He's on personal leave." That's what they say anyway; that's the official word given out by the admirals and captains when curiosity became too much, when students' mutterings in the hallways became a nuisance. Maybe he's not voluntarily on leave, though.

His eyes widen. "Personal leave? When the hell did this happen?"

I hesitate. He's going to be mad at me. I took so long to notice. It will infuriate him. "F-five days ago. I found out five days ago."

He jumps to his feet, towering over me. I flinch. "Five days? And I'm just finding out about this now?"

I drop my eyes and say nothing.

He scoffs and backs away, pacing the room. I release a small breath of relief. If he's across the room, I'm safer. If he decides to come after me, I have enough space to attempt to escape. I hope he doesn't. I hope he doesn't punish me. I watch him like a hawk, my eyes glued to his pacing form. He's muttering to himself, his face growing red. He's angry. I guess I can understand that. This is another kink in his plan. A plan that's been going on four years with no progress. I'm horrible at this.

I've spent four years concerned about my own success in the Academy, having tasted freedom for the first time in years, that I haven't given much thought about Robau's plan, about the Resistance's goal. Just mine. I've been selfish. And now, I'm supposed to be close to something, I'm supposed to be giving Robau vital information. But all I can think about is my pending graduation and Spock's disappearance.

If only I could understand what it was he was wanting from me, what it was that he's looking for when I go to Commander Spock. What am I suppose to be seeing? Doing?

I should ask him. I should tell him that I'm lost. That I'm floundering. But I fear that may be worse. That might infuriate him further. But I don't know. I don't know that it will.

But it might.

So I don't ask.

"How do you not notice that the alien you're fucking every night suddenly disappeared?" He twirls around to face me.

I wince, dropping my eyes. He's furious. He's never been furious with me before. "I-I don't know."

"You don't know?" He doesn't believe me. Guess I can't really blame him. I have no excuse. Because there is no excuse.

I take a breath. "He threw me out of his place the last time I saw him." I just figured he needed time to cool off. I figured I'd be receiving a call from him soon to return to his apartment, to take my clothes off, to let him fuck me.

Robau's face contorts, revealing the anger he no doubt was fighting to control. "He threw you out?"

I nod. "Yes, sir."

He sighs. "Do you know where he went?"

I shake my head. "I don't even know when he left. He doesn't talk to me. He just fucks me and throws me out." I don't tell him about the nights he allows me to stay. It doesn't matter if I do anyway. Commander Spock still doesn't talk to me then, either. I don't tell him that I fear the Commander dead. I don't know what he'd do then. I don't want to know. So I keep it to myself.

"I have been very forgiving, Nyota. You have been at that blasted Academy for nearly four years. You've been sleeping with one of the most respected officers there; the one, I might add, that's heading the Special Forces, for nearly three months. And you still have nothing. No information. I am beginning to doubt your commitment to the mission, to me."

I shake my head furiously. "I am committed. I am. And I'm not lying. I swear I'm not!" Yes, I am.

His anger is scaring me. He glares at me, face red, the vein in his forehead and neck pulsing angrily.

And I suddenly apologize. If I say it enough, maybe he won't punish me. "I'm sorry, sir. I really am. I'm trying. But Commander Spock is untrusting. He's Vulcan. They aren't close to anyone."

"Half-Vulcan," Robau corrects. "And surely a woman of your abilities wouldn't have any trouble getting the alien bastard to open up to you. Spread your legs wide enough. Pretend to enjoy it. Although, if I am to understand it correctly, there's not a lot of pretending involved."

I drop my gaze, ashamed. "How did they get Gaila?" I ask so quietly, my voice nearly a whisper. I don't want to talk to him anymore. I want to talk to Gaila. She isn't violent. She isn't raging. She also isn't here.

"Gaila? She got what she deserved."

I gasp. "Did you turn her in?" Please, no.

He guffaws and stomps toward me. I shrink away from him, backing up on the tiny mattress. But he bends down and grabs me by my arms, lifting me to my feet. "Gaila is unimportant."

I shake my head. "No."

He shakes me. "Gaila is not the issue here. We are talking about your gross inability to do your job."

Again, I shake my head. "I'm trying, sir. I swear I'm trying. But I don't know –"

He interrupts me, tightening his grip on me. "No, you listen to me."

I try to pull away. I try to get him to let go of me. "You're hurting me."

He doesn't let go. He simply tightens his grip further, making me wince. "Perhaps that is something that I should have done a long time ago."

My eyes widen. A long time ago? What is he saying? "Wha—"

"I have been kind to you, Nyota. I have been patient. I have been careful not to harm you."

But he's hurting me now. I try to pull away from him but to no avail. He's not releasing me.

He continued. "Because I thought this was what you needed."

I need him to let me go. I need to get away from him. I pull against him again, trying desperately to get away. But he won't let me go.

Suddenly, he propels me into the nearest wall, slamming my back against it. I cry out, my heart pounding. I never thought he'd do this to me. I trusted him. He's not supposed to be this way. One of his hands leaves my shoulder to caress my cheek. I flinch, jerking my face away from him.

His eyes narrow. "You would deny my touch and yet spread your legs for that fucking alien?"

That fucking alien. Such hateful words from someone who was supposed to want peace among throughout the Empire. Someone who made a place for an alien in his own bed. "Gaila is an alien." No, Gaila **was** an alien.

" **Gaila** " – He spit her name like a curse – "was disposable."

"What did you do to her?" The words slip from my lips again before I can stop them.

He smiles at me. It's not a nice smile. When did that change happen? He has always had a nice smile. A kind smile. Why is he behaving this way? "We've already had this conversation, Nyota. Gaila is unimportant. You are my focus right now."

What is he talking about? Why is he behaving this way? I'm nervous. Shaking. This is my shining knight in armor. He's not supposed to be this way. Why is he acting this way?

He reaches up and tears the wig from me, forcing my long hair to tumble down my shoulders. He fists the wig and grabs my neck with the other, pressing me into the wall. He shoves the wig into my face. "I thought we agreed that this pathetic excuse of a disguise was only to be used on the Academy's campus. That you were to dress as what you really are here?"

I don't say anything, too terrified. This is Robau. The man who saved me from the streets. This is Robau. He's not supposed to do this.

He stares at me for several moments. I feel uneasy under his gaze. I want to go away from here. I want to go back to my dorm. I want to return to Spock.

Spock.

Commander Spock who may be dead.

Would he save me? If he were here? Would he rush in to release me from this man's grip? He did it once. Would he care, would he do it again?

Suddenly, without provocation, without warning, Robau throws the wig aside and kisses me and I freeze. I don't move. I don't breath. I don't react when I feel him press his lips forcibly against mine, when I feel him shove his tongue into my mouth. I don't know how to react. I don't know what to do.

A hand weaves its way under the waistband of my pants and into my underwear, pressing against me.

It's then that I finally react. I don't want to let that happen to me again while I stand and do nothing. I will fight. Even if it is futile. I deliver a powerful kick between his legs. He cries out, tearing his lips from mine, falling against me and pressing me tighter into the wall. I reach up and shove him away. He stumbles backward and I run toward the door.

If I can get away, I can be safe. I can pretend it didn't happen. I can pretend he's not like the others. I can pretend.

But he reaches out and grabs my hair. I scream. He spins me around, throwing me off balance. And I slam my head against the edge of a dresser.

Then darkness.


	18. The Silent Shattering of a Desperate Hope

My eyes snap open. My breaths are pants. My head is pounding, pain emanating from my forehead. I'm on a bed. The disgusting mattress in the same room at the whorehouse.

I shift, attempting to sit up. A sharp pain sears my forehead and I cry out, bringing a hand to my head. I feel a wet stickiness and pull my hand away.

My fingers are red with blood.

I gasp and struggle to sit up, but the pain is too much and I collapse against the stale mattress again. Looking down my body, another strangled gasp escapes my lips.

I'm nude.

Robau has removed my uniform and my underwear. Tears sting my eyes and my heart pounds in my chest. Because I know why. I can recall a fuzzy memory. Struggling again, I sit up, fighting the wooziness. I cast my gaze around the room, searching. Where is my clothing? Where is he?

A tear escapes.

I hear a clanging in the bathroom across the small room. And then the door swings open. Robau steps out, looking at me. He is half-dressed, zipping his pants back up. His chest is naked.

My eyes widen. And tears fall. My hands shaking, I bring them to my breasts, desperate to conceal my body from his eyes even though I know perfectly well it's a wasted effort. He's seen me. And God only knows what he did to me while I was unconscious. Because I know what he did when I wasn't.

Why am I naked and he's getting dressed?

That question enters my mind though I already know the answer. But sometimes, the truth is so heartbreaking, so cruel that you try so hard to deny it, to ignore it. Even when you know you can't. Because how could I forget this?

Without warning, I am thrust into a memory. The night Commander Spock discovered my secret. I stood there, utterly exposed and desperately trying to hide my body from his view. He approached me and felt me and fucked me. And I let him.

Then, I felt fear intermingled with a twisted sense of arousal.

Now, only fear floods my body.

Tears flood my eyes, blurring my vision, and I drop my gaze to my lap. I hear him shuffling around the room. No doubt, he's finishing getting dressed. I don't say anything. I'm too scared to say anything. To do anything.

Where is Spock? I want him here. I have no idea why.

I fear what Robau may have done to me when I was unconscious and at his mercy, but I'm terrified of knowing the truth. He's not supposed to be this man. He's supposed to be different.

I don't think I want to know what he did.

He throws my uniform on the bed in front of me and I jump, surprised. My eyes move from the starched red clothing and slowly upwards to his. I don't know what I'm expecting to see in his eyes, but there's none of the kindness I've always known to be there.

"Get dressed." His voice no longer resonates the warmth I am used to hearing from him.

My hands drop from my breasts, exposing them once more to the coldness in the air, and fist the material of the uniform top. I drop my gaze again. "What did you do to me?"

He doesn't answer me. He sighs and seats himself in the chair across from me, much like he did when we first entered this room.

I wrap the top around my body, like it was a bed sheet. I'm desperate to hide my body from his view. "Did you r—" I can't finish that question. Did he? Did the man to whom I looked up violate me while I was unconscious? I know he did when I was awake, fighting the dizziness, the sudden weakness brought on by the blow to my head. I know I fought him, I know he pinned me down. I look at him, tears trickling down my face. I bite my lower lip, drawing it in, trying to steady my wobbling chin. I take a deep breath. "Did you rape me?" I ask baldly. I can't not know. But I do know.

I'm terrified of his answer. Because it will make it real.

Silence reigns and I fear what's going through his mind.

Robau sighs, releasing a long breath. Then he shakes his head. "No."

I sob loudly, bringing a hand to my mouth in an attempt to stifle the sound. Because that is a * _lie_ *. I nod my head, the movement jerky, and drop my gaze in my lap. I know I shouldn't accept his answer at face value, especially not when he came out of the bathroom in a state of undress, but I can't face the reality that he might have. I could accept Commander Spock, as an officer for the Empire, to behave so depravedly—and even then, I can't really do that either, not now—but not Robau.

"Then why am I—"

He sighs again. "I figured you'd be more comfortable."

Comfortable. Does he mean comfortable in that my uniform appeared too restrictive in my unconscious state and he wished for me to be comfortable? Or comfortable in that I am whore, a man's plaything, and therefore not worthy of clothing? I am not a man, I am less. Is that what he means?

Robau reaches sideways to the crummy little nightstand and grabs a dermal repair kit. He tosses it on the bed in front of me. "Why don't you go get yourself cleaned up. You're bleeding all over the place."

I grab the kit with one hand and tighten my grip on my uniform with the other. I turn my body and gently set my feet on the cold floor. I stand slowly but am overwhelmed by a wave of vertigo and collapse on the mattress. I close my eyes and take a deep breath, then rise again. I still feel dizzy, but it's not as bad. And I want out of this room. For the first time since meeting him, I want away from Robau. The dull ache between my legs tells me what I already know. That he lied to me. And if I don't get away from him, I will crumble.

There's nothing I can about it. I can't run to the authorities and beg them to help me. I'd be arrested first because of my placement within the Academy and because I am no doubt wanted for murdering the Admiral. And women are the property of men, right? You can't rape your own property. But which man do I belong to? Robau? Or Commander Spock?

It's a small relief that I was unconscious for the most part this time. Since I don't have any solid memory of him holding me down, hovering above me, thru—I stumble in my own mind—thrusting into me, I can pretend he told me the truth. I can pretend he didn't do it.

I can continue believing he is my shining knight.

I need to.

I enter the bathroom and close the door behind me, locking it. The quiet click gives me more comfort, more security than I've felt since arriving here to meet him.

I place my uniform and the kit on the bathroom counter and step back to look at my nude body fully in the mirror. The angry gash on my forehead stands out, red and swollen, against my dark skin. It's a deep cut. Blood seeps out. I reach up and trace the wound gingerly with a finger. It stings sharply and I gasp, dropping my hand to my side.

I look at the dermal kit sitting on the counter. It needs to be mended. But I need to see the rest first.

The rest of my body seems uninjured. Except for two fresh bruises on both sides of my hips. Bruises shaped like fingers. Tears flood my eyes. Commander Spock, even at his roughest, has not marred my flesh in a long time, not since the incident at the Wall. He has taken to be gentler when he fucks me, even as he grows ever more distant. I have not bore his mark in weeks. These belong to Robau.

Tears fall. I let them.

There is another way, albeit unscientific, to tell if Robau's prick has been inside of me, while I lay disoriented, maybe unconscious, and bleeding on the stinking bed. I'm just scared of finding out. But I must know the truth. Even though I already know the truth.

A shaking hand drifts between my legs. Where it should be dry, my hand comes away sticky with semen. I stifle a sob—I don't want him to hear me—and reach for the faucet, turning it on.

He lied to me. He said he didn't do it. He lied. Or maybe, he didn't. Because in the eyes of the twisted fucking Empire, he didn't do anything wrong. He didn't do that of which I accused him. He cannot be prosecuted for what he has done to me. But, I thought, he was against the Empire and its laws. If I asked him if women should have the same rights and liberties as men, he'd say 'yes.' Right? Or would he look at me and laugh before telling me to get down on my knees?

God, I was so naive, so desperate to believe him.

I stick my hand under the running water and feverishly scrub it, desperate to rid myself of his unwanted expenditure.

I need to take a shower.

I turn around and reach into the stall and turn the water on. Blast it on full heat. I step in, sliding the stall door closed behind me. The scorching water burns my skin. It sears the wound on my forehead but I don't care. I want the physical pain of the scalding water, because I can withstand that so much more than I can the emotional pain. The emotional pain of my savior violating me. Raping me.

I believed him. I believed in his plan. His dream.

My tears fall and I allow myself the solace in the cascading water and let them. I sob, knowing the water will help to conceal my sorrow, my horror from his ears. I don't want to imagine what he'd do if he could hear me. Would he break down the door and storm in here? Would he grab me by the neck, slam me into the nearest wall and rape me again? Would I be conscious this time?

Tears mingling with water, I grab the loofah hanging from the shower-head. It's rough to the touch, but I don't care. I have to get the sticky remnants of his presence off my skin. I slather an ample amount of soap onto the loofah and run the thing across my body. Down my chest, my abdomen until I reach my pussy. I scrub violently, rubbing the delicate flesh between my legs raw. It hurts. But I don't care.

I need him gone.

I trusted him.

That trust is obliterated.

After the worst of my sobs are through, and the area between my legs raw, I turn the water off. I step out of the stall, water dripping from my body.

If it had been anyone else...

I wouldn't feel this way. I wouldn't feel like my world imploded, leaving me to pick up the shattered remains. Because, if it had been any other man—a stranger, perhaps—that's how it's supposed to be. (I staunchly ignore my breakdown with Commander Spock after the Wall incident. Yes, that's how it is supposed to go. But that doesn't mean that it doesn't still break a part of me inside.)

But it did happen. And I do feel that way.

I wish I knew where Commander Spock is. I wish I knew when I grew to prefer his presence and when I grew comfortable in his presence. Since when did Spock become safe, comfortable? He shouldn't. God knows he shouldn't. He forced me into that sexual relationship with him because I fear the wrath of the Empire far worse than I do his. He came close to raping me when he found me going through his desk that one time so long ago.

But he didn't.

But unlike Robau, he stopped before he did it. I am ever so grateful for that. Even if I never tell him so, because if he had gone through with it...

I don't even want to think about it.

He held me when I succumbed to my tears. No man had ever held me like that before.

I need to hurry. Robau will grow impatient. And I don't want him to come in here. I don't want him near me.

I grab a towel from the rack near the shower. It's stiff and scratchy, but it will have to do. This is a whorehouse, after all, not a four-star hotel. The towel irritates my already sensitive skin, but I don't care. I don't stop drying myself, running the towel across my body, between my legs.

Dried, I drop the towel to the ground and approach the mirror. I grab the dermal kit and lean forward, inspecting my wound. It's red and angry, but I think the dermal kit will repair most of the damage.

I use the kit, staring at myself in the mirror, watching as the wound slowly heals. Tears sting my eyes again. When will my agony end? I think I understand why so many women, trapped as they are, decide to end it all. Because what good is it to suffer endlessly when there is no shred of hope, of happiness for us in this Empire? There is no kindness without it being used as a manipulation device. There is no love. I don't even know what love is. It's some abstract idea that makes no sense to me.

There is no hope.

There is only so much the kit can do for the gash on my forehead, but it has reduced it enough.

I set the kit on the counter and grab my uniform. I put it on, desperate to hide my bruised flesh from my view. With clothing on, I feel significantly better, my tattered dignity having been restored somewhat. It's not enough to heal my internal wounds completely—I don't think anything will be enough for that—but it's a start.

I stare at myself once more in the mirror. Dead eyes stare back at me, framed by ashen features. I look horrible. But there's nothing I can do about it.

And there's no point in continuing to delay the inevitable. I will have to go back out there; I will have to face him again and pretend that everything's all right. Because it is. According to him.

I exit the bathroom slowly, head down and arms folded in front of me. He stands and approaches me. I struggle not to back away from him. I struggle to remind myself that he thinks he has convinced me that he did not violate me while I was unconscious.

It's difficult. If not impossible.

Robau grips my chin and lifts my head up. I tentatively meet his gaze; I'm scared of what I might see in his eyes. How quickly I have become terrified of him.

He looks at my injury. "It looks better."

I nod slightly, acknowledging his statement. It's true. It does look better.

He leans down and kisses me, thrusting his tongue into my mouth. I fight the urge to gag. It's unwanted, but there's nothing I can do to stop him. He might hurt me again if I give into temptation and bite the tongue thrusting into my mouth. So I don't do anything. I am utterly unresponsive as he kisses me. If it upsets him, I have no way of knowing. Unless he chooses to let me know.

This is what he's been preparing me for. Gaila was right. He wants me for himself. I don't know why. I still don't know why he gave Gaila up—and I'm absolutely certain he did—and I'm not sure I want to know.

Eventually, he stops and I am thankful. He steps away from me and my gaze returns to the ground. It's really quite filthy. Dirt, grime and God only knows what else stain the hardwood floors.

I want out of here. But I must wait.

"I shall give you more time. I shouldn't. But I will. And only because I like you, Nyota. You should hope that Commander Spock returns soon."

"Why did you lie to me?" The words are out of my mouth before I can stop them and I immediately shirk away from him, waiting for his wrath.

He laughs quietly. I dare to look at him.

"I have never lied to you, Nyota."

I shake my head and tears sting my eyes. No. That's not true. "No. You raped me. I know you did. And you told me you wouldn't hurt me. Remember?"

He grips my chin harder. "I did what was necessary to remind you that you are not the one in charge. You seem to have forgotten, caught up in your little affair with that Vulcan."

I release a harsh sob.

"Listen to me, Nyota. I will not tolerate any more blunders on your part. When Commander Spock returns, you are to gain his confidence and get him talking. I don't care how you do it. Give him the best blowjob he's ever had. Let him stick it in your ass. Let him tie you up. Tell him you love him. I don't care. You're a clever girl; I'm sure you can think of something. But I want to know what he knows about the Emperor's accommodations when he's in town."

"The Emperor?"

"Yes." That was all he said. He dropped his hand from my chin and turned to the door.

"And if he's dead?" I ask, thinking of the blood in Commander Spock's bedroom and sink.

"You better pray that he's not. Because if he's dead, then I have no further use for you."

* * *

My return to campus and my undercover identity went without incident. No one saw me. No one cared. I fought the urge to hope that Commander Spock would suddenly appear behind me in the xenolinguistics building, just as he had so many weeks ago. I don't know why I kept hoping for that, but I did, as I stood in front of the desk upon which he fucked me for the first time. At some point during my twisted, fucked up relationship with him, Spock has come to represent a sort of comfort. He could be unpredictable, but still, I managed to derive comfort in that unpredictability. I don't know why. I don't know how.

He didn't show up, of course.

This upsets me more than it should.


	19. The Stories Stemming from a Broken Mind

I lean against the wall of my silent dorm, pressing my back against the cold hard surface. I let myself slide down, until my knees are tucked up to my chest, my arms wrapped around my legs.

Across the room, by the door, two small bags rest upon the floor.

Two bags. That's what my life consists of. That's all that belongs to me.

Two small bags.

But they don't really belong to **me** , do they? They're Benjamin's. That's right. Everything in those bags belongs to a man who doesn't really exist. A brilliant man, a man who faced adversity in this place and persevered. And made stronger for it. I **wish** I could be that man again. I wish that man was real. That he was me.

But he's not.

I'm not.

I swipe at the falling tear trickling down my face.

Where will I go?

That's a question I don't have an answer for. I cannot tell you where I'm going. Or how I'm going to get there.

All I know is that I can't stay here. I can't.

Not now.

Three days. That's how long it's been since Robau—

No. I can't.

I haven't slept in three days. How can I? How can I when I'm plagued by the nightmares, the memories? The nightmares and memories that haunt me even as I sit here, surrounded by the bright lights, the lock secured on the door.

He won't come in here.

I know that. I know that he wouldn't risk exposure, capture by tracking me on campus. Or, I'd like to think he won't. I don't really know. But I tell myself that he won't. Because otherwise, I'll go insane.

Have I ever been happy?

Have I?

I've laughed. I've smiled. I ran around, chasing butterflies in the bright sunlight of Africa, into the forests, giggling in only the way a child can. I've done that. I remember that. Right? That was happiness, right? I'd like to think so. It makes me feel better if I pretend that it was.

I do better if I pretend it wasn't all a lie.

Happiness feels like such a myth, a wonderful idea that doesn't exist. How can it? How can happiness thrive in this place? This Empire of such evilness, such destitution. Such horror. How has the human race survived so long? How can happiness survive the horrors, the pain I have endured?

Have I endured?

I guess you could say I have. I'm still here, aren't I? I'm not dead. I'm still alive. Physically, maybe. That's all that matters, right? I am still alive, I can continue living.

But how much longer can I endure? What more must I suffer?

Have I been living? Or merely existing?

This Empire is all-controlling. But...what other life is there? I cannot imagine a life of freedom. I can't. I try. I tell myself that I do believe, that I believe in the mission. But let's be honest, how can it change?

I just want to be free of this enslavement. Of the Empire, of the Commander, of Robau and his fucked up Resistance. I just want to be free.

There are two ways.

I haven't left this room for three days; I haven't eaten, I haven't attended any classes. I don't care.

How can I serve a man who has betrayed me? Who has done what he claims to abhor? How can I? How can anyone expect me to do that?

My eyes still linger on the bags. That's one way. One way to escape the torment, the sorrow.

Run away.

Run.

Away.

I don't know where I would go. But is that important? Does the destination matter? Would I ever stop running?

Run away and forget all of this. It's not worth it. Right?

How can it be worth it? How can it? I just want someone to tell me that it'll be worth it in the end. That all this I have been through will be for a reason. That I won't die for nothing. I want something to tell me this.

But who will?

I just want to stop crying. I can do that. I can stop the tears that still drip down my face.

Maybe if I was strong enough.

Because I don't think I'm strong enough. I cannot be.

If I was strong, none of this would have happened. If I was strong, I wouldn't be a weeping mess, huddled in the corner of room, contemplating escaping.

If I was strong...

My eyes slide from the bags to my nightstand, where the sharp glint of metal catches in the light.

Two ways.

There are two ways to escape.

I close my eyes. I'm so tired. Three days without sleep. Every time I close my eyes I see him.

Robau.

I see him hovering over me. I fought him as desperately as I could. But I wasn't strong enough. Floating between consciousness and unconsciousness, I couldn't fight his strong grip. I couldn't throw him off. I couldn't get away. He pinned me to the bed and he tore my clothes off.

And I couldn't fight him.

And I can't forget his face, his angry face as he—

As he released himself from his pants. As he impaled me, shattering my fragile equilibrium.

I want to forget.

I suppose I should be thankful that I blacked out within a few grunting thrusts.

I just didn't black out soon enough.

And if he had taken it upon himself to clean up. To wipe the evidence from my body...I might have been able to continue pretending.

Or maybe I'm remembering it all incorrectly. I was woozy, I was bleeding. Maybe I'm making it all up in my head because I'm desperate. Desperate to believe that he didn't, couldn't do something like that. To me. Because he promised me.

Do I continue working for him? The Emperor. He wants information on the Emperor. I don't know why exactly. But he wants it.

Should I get it for him?

Or—

It doesn't matter, I guess. Commander Spock is gone. I don't know where he is. I don't know when, or if he'll be back. He has the information. But I can't get it.

Robau will kill me.

I know he will.

Will it hurt?

If he doesn't kill me, he'll turn me in. Just like he did with Gaila.

Poor Gaila.

I should get away from him.

Which leads me back to—

Two options.

Both will allow me to escape Robau, the Empire...everything.

The glinting metal beckons me.

It wouldn't be the first time. It wouldn't.

I drop my eyes to my knees, to my hands. I turn my hands around, palm up, and look at the scars.

No, it really wouldn't be the first time.

I clasp my wrist in one hand, running a finger across the slightly-raised flesh. It's an angry mark marring my wrist.

I could do it.

I close my eyes, squeezing them tight, letting the tears leak out. I grab the knife. I look at it. I jab it in my chest. It would slip in like I was made of butter.

I hold my breath.

I would lie in a puddle of growing rubies. I would close my eyes.

It's peaceful.

I snap my eyes open and inhale a deep breath.

No. I can't.

Fresh tears fall. And my eyes dart away from the sharp knife.

See, I **am** weak. I don't possess the courage that Commander Spock said I do. I am nothing like his mother, his brave mother. I am weak. Sniveling.

Robau will kill me.

Once upon a time, there was a young girl. A young naive girl. A young naive girl who didn't know what the world was like beyond the gates of her home, beyond the forest walls. She spent her days with friends, chasing those silly little butterflies, planning her dream future. She believed in happy endings; she believed in fairy tales. She dreamed of her Prince Charming. Her future husband. He is going to be a strong man, with handsome features and a kind smile. He is going to love her and cherish her and she him.

That's what she knew was going to happen.

But, once upon a time, that young naive girl wasn't so naive anymore. That young naive girl cried, screamed. And no one heard. No one cared.

Once upon a time, that girl was kept prisoner in a tower by a monster. The monster liked to visit the young broken girl, like to make her cry, scream. He climbed on top of her and a piece of her heart was chipped away. Every time.

Once upon a time, that young broken girl still wished for her Prince Charming. She wished for him to come, to rescue her from the monster.

He didn't.

But she did escape. She thought she was strong and brave. But outside in the cold dark world, the monster had friends.

And Prince Charming, she was pretty sure he didn't exist.

She battled those monsters on her own. Sometimes, she won. Most times, she didn't. But she survived.

And then, once upon a time, a man found her. A strong man, with handsome features and a kind smile. Prince Charming. Her knight in shining armor.

He saved her. He showed her things she only imagined. But he asked much of her. He sent her to meet the Dark Prince, a mysterious cold man. Her Prince Charming told her to sacrifice herself to this Dark Prince. And that young broken not so naive but still so naive girl did. The Dark Prince promised to break her. The Dark Prince held her, protected her, hurt her. The Dark Prince confused her.

But the young girl stood by what her Prince Charming stood for. Because he was good, he was righteous.

But that young girl, who wasn't so naive anymore, found out that her Dark Prince was missing and even her Prince Charming, her shining knight, was a monster.

Robau will kill her.

Or have me killed.

I don't know which. I don't know if I want to know. I don't know if it will make any difference. Either way, I'll be dead.

So, I need to do something. Right? I can't sit in this room forever.

I haven't thought of fairy tales or once upon a time's in a long time. I'd almost forgotten them. Those silly fake stories children are told to make them happy, to keep them young and stupid. Only to have their fake perceptions ripped from their hands and true reality slammed into their pretty young faces.

I wonder what's going to happen to Benjamin. He's missed three days of classes in a row. With no note, no excuse. He'll probably be punished for that, too.

I'm surprised no one has come looking for Benjamin yet.

I guess they just don't care.

Outside, just on the other side of that door, I can hear movement. Laughter. Cadets moving from the dorms to classes. Returning from classes. They talk to each other. Yell names across the hallway.

No, they don't care about Benjamin. Because Benjamin didn't, doesn't have friends. He never bothered. He didn't try. Benjamin thought he was better than everyone else. His grades told him he was. He was supposed to be valedictorian.

Could you imagine the looks on those cadets' faces if they knew that the man who beat their feeble attempts with little effort was actually a woman?

I giggle. A mad little sound. Slicing through the thick silence.

I think I'm going mad. But, if you're truly mad, then you don't realize it. Right?

I guess that doesn't really matter. It's not important.

What's important is that I need to make a decision. I can't stay here. Commander Spock is gone. And Robau is threatening.

So, which will it be?

My eyes slide close again.

The doorknob rattles. I open my eyes. The doorknob rattles? What doorknob?

The door opens, opens with a big crash, swinging on its hinges, smacking into the wall, shaking from the impact.

The door opens and Robau enters. And I gasp. He snarls at me, bearing his teeth.

I grab the knife, its metal glinting on the nightstand. And I thrust the blade up, watching it slide into his chest, blood bubbling from the hole. I watch his eyes widen. I watch him fall to the floor.

Then I jump up and I stab him. Stab stab stab. Blood flies blood stains.

But I'm free.

* * *

I open my eyes. It's dark. Night has fallen. It is now day four since I've—since Benjamin has ceased going to class.

I look across the room, at the bags still packed. At the door, still closed, still locked. I guess I didn't kill Robau.

I should run. But I can't. I need to stay here. The mission is important. It's more important than my desperate attempts at freedom. It's more important than anything else. So I will stay. I guess.

The quiet beep from my communicator pulls me out of my thoughts. My eyes slide towards it, and I wipe the dried tears from my cheeks. It sits on the nightstand next to the bed, trilling, next to the glinting metal blade. I drag myself to my knees and I reach over across the small distance and grab it. I look at the screen.

One message.

My fingers move across the touch screen and I pull up the message.

It's from Commander Spock.

A sharp inhale of breath. I hesitate. Is it really from him? I've convinced myself that he wasn't coming back, that I wouldn't see him anymore. And now a message.

My shaking finger touches the screen, hovering over the sender's name. And the communicator pulls the message up instantly.

 _I need to see you. If you are willing.  
S._

I gasp. He's back? He's come back? And he wants to see me? Do I want to see him? Is it really him? Or has security caught wind of my presence, my true identity, and are using this as a ploy to get me to come out?

Am I willing to risk that?

I rise to my feet, clutching the communicator in my hand.

Yes. Yes, I am. Because, honestly, what more do I have to lose? What can they take from me that I haven't had stolen from me already? My life? I guess. It was never really mine anyway. They can have it if they want it.

I approach the door and unlock it. It slides open. The hall is bright, the overhead fluorescent lights burning. But it's silent. Everyone is in bed.

It's past curfew. I don't care.

I exit the room, stepping over the threshold and into the hallway.

I am now in violation of the rules. If anyone sees me, I'll be reported.

I move through the hall, silent. Down the turbolift, into the lobby. And outside, into the courtyard. Across the campus, to the faculty's apartment complex. Up the turbolift.

It opens and I exit, entering the bleak hall.

No one's here. No students. No Pike. I walk to his apartment, Commander Spock.

The door slides open. And I enter.


	20. The Cataclysmic Mist of His Mind

The door slides closed behind me and I turn around to face the interior of his apartment.

It's so dark. So dark.

I stand still, my eyes open wide as I wait for them to adjust. I take a breath, halt. My mouth closes. My eyes close then open and I call out. "Sir?" I move down the little hallway, my hands skirting across the walls, guiding me as I glided down the narrow path.

A _pwoosh_ and a small ball of light dances across the room. It settles on his _asenoi_ , igniting the little wick atop the pot. A warm glow blooms from the pot, light bouncing off the walls, the chairs, sofa, coffee table.

Him.

I take a deep breath and swallow back a sudden onslaught of tears. There he is. I stand still in front of him, still bracing myself on the walls of the hallway. The tiny flame dances in front of him, where he is seated on the sofa. It illuminates his skin, revealing him amongst the shadows.

"Nyota. You have arrived. I am thankful." He speaks in a low tone. His voice no longer the cold sharp voice from our last encounter. It's different in a way that's difficult to describe. Soft.

Tinged with emotion.

I step forward into the room, my hands dropping from the walls to my sides. I inhale, breathing in the light scent of incense from the fire pot. It's a new scent, hinting at the essence of sandalwood, but something still uniquely non-Terran. Vulcan, perhaps.

The Commander watches me, resting his hands on his knees, the light of the flame reflecting in his eyes. He tilts his head to the side. "You have been injured."

I halt, my breath freezing in my lungs. My body shakes. I gasp, the harsh sound echoing against the stark walls. Tears burn my eyes. I want to forget. But he won't let me. Does he know? But how would he?

"I apologize. I did not intend to upset you." There's still something different in his voice. I can't place it.

I swallow back my tears. No, he doesn't know. He can't know. I step forward again, padding across the floor. To him. I sit beside him on the sofa, curling my feet beneath me. I look at him, drinking in his appearance. He'd been gone for so long. I'd given up hope on his return.

He's dressed in his dark meditation robes, sash tied around his waist. It's loose enough to reveal his naked chest. His hair is still the haphazard mess he allowed it to grow into when I last saw him. His eyes—he turns to look at me—they are dark, a swirling abyss.

He looks away. "I had not expected you to answer my communication so promptly."

"Where did you go?" My voice cracks, weighed down by my sobs and cries from the past several days.

He inhales. Exhales. "I returned to Vulcan."

I could have so many questions to ask. Why? Why did he go back to that planet? Why didn't he let me know? Why was he gone for so long? Why didn't he take me? I have so many questions to ask but I don't. I don't say anything. Because, if he wants me to know, he'll tell me. And if not, and if I push, he'll grow angry. And shove me away. Maybe hurt me.

So I remain silent. My eyes drift from his face to look at the dancing flame. And I try to forget. I try to forget it all. The Commander. His disappearance. His disappearance that left me more vulnerable than I will ever care to admit. Robau. And the...rape. I know I need to address it, get through it. But it's so difficult. I have endured such things before. I have endured worse. But never from a man whom I had grown to trust.

I wanted to kill myself. Only minutes ago, I was in my dorm and I was contemplating it. I was doing more than contemplating it. I had the blade ready. I just had to grab it and make that first cut. Cut along the scars already lining my wrists. It would have been so simple, wouldn't it? And no one would care, would they? I'm just a woman. No one would have even discovered my body until days later, when Benjamin's absence from classes finally became noticed and concern finally grew.

And then my dark secret, the secret I've been harboring for nearly four years would have been revealed to all.

But I would already be dead. I wouldn't care what they did to me after that.

I would have been dead. I would have been free.

Free. It was so tempting. To be free. I've tried. I've tried to run away from it all; I've tried to hold my head up high, push my thoughts away, and do what Robau told me to do. Because I would be free. But I wasn't. I'm not. I'm still a slave, a prisoner. I belong to Robau, to the Commander. I belong to them both. They both own my body, control me, my mind.

I want out of here. It's so stifling.

I'm so weak. It's disgusting, really.

"My father."

My eyes dart from the flame to him. "What?"

He remains looking ahead. His eyes studying the flame. "You asked me once why I did what I did. My father. I sought his whereabouts."

I turn my body to face him, drawing my legs to my chest.

His gaze drops from the flame to his lap then to me for a brief second. And drops again. He takes a deep breath. And exhales. "I—" He breaks off. It's so uncharacteristic of him that it startles me. He takes another breath. "My mother was arrested and executed when I was four years of age. This, you know. She had no trial; there was no judge, no jury. The law decided her fate. I have never questioned this. The officers and soldiers involved in her execution were merely following the law." He pauses for a moment.

"I had not seen my father, my biological father, Sarek, since the night Starfleet arrested them both. And me."

I gasp. I could not help it. "Why did they arrest you? You were just a child."

"I was an atrocity. A child of two worlds. Neither Vulcan nor human. I was..." He takes a deep breath and is silent for a long moment.

My eyes remain on him. Why do I give him my undivided attention? Why should I give him any attention? Especially after what he said to me the last time I saw him. I don't mean anything to him, so why should he matter to me? I should run away from him. I should get up and leave. I should return to my dorm and—

And what? Pick up where I left off? Grab that blade and jab it into my heart? I—I wanted to die. I thought I was alone and would always be alone. I didn't think he'd ever come back, I lost my one friend, my—I was attacked by someone I trusted. What do I have to live for?

I look at Spock. At the Commander. He came back. Why?

Then he turns to look at me. "I apologize. It is difficult for me to speak of it, as it is with all Vulcans. We are not prone to discussions of emotions. Perhaps it would be best to show you."

"Show me?" I don't know about this. He came back. But what does that mean for me?

He nods. "Yes. Through a mind meld."

I hesitate. My mouth opens and closes and I look for the words to say. Is that what he's been doing to me before? Sometimes, I've felt something inside me, wriggling around my mind when he's near me, when he's touching me, fucking me. Is that a mind meld? I don't know if that's what I want. I don't—

He looks away. "Again, I must apologize. It is difficult to describe a mind meld to another."

"Is...Is it—" I break off. "Have you done it to me? Before?"

The Commander looks at me then shakes his head. "What I have previously engaged with you is not a true mind meld."

I take a deep breath. "What—"

"Vulcans are touch-telepaths, as I am sure you are aware."

I nod. Yes. I know. That's one of the first things we learn at the Academy. Be careful. Don't touch a Vulcan and don't let him touch you. He'll control you, manipulate you. I've done both. I've touched him and I let him touch me. What does he know of my mind? What doesn't he know? Can I let him into my mind again, willingly?

My body trembles, my breath comes out in huffs. "I—"

"I will only see what you allow me to see. And you will only see what I wish for you to see." His reassurance is both odd and comforting. He has not made it his concern to ensure that I am comfortable with our arrangement. I do it because I have to, because I fear what will happen more than what will happen if I allow him inside my body.

Why did he leave me behind? Why didn't he take me with him?

"Do I have your permission?"

Why is he asking for my permission? He's never cared before. He's never stopped to ask me if I was sure this was what I wanted. He makes sure I'm wet enough for him then thrusts inside.

I nod, my hair falling in my face. I want to know. I want to know what could have driven him to disappear, to leave me behind. Though I don't know why I'm so concerned with that; he doesn't owe me anything—except, he does, for everything he's done to me—he doesn't need to inform me of his plans. I want to know. I want to know and I don't care about what sort of discomfort I'll experience to learn.

The Commander turns his body to face mine. He places his hands on my face, his fingers touching my temples, my cheeks.

I watch him, my breath coming out in pants. I cannot deny that I'm nervous, anxious. He will be in my mind; I will be in his.

He closes his eyes.

I do the same, my body shaking.

"My mind to your mind..."

* * *

PAIN!

I cry out, my body tenses. Not my body not my pain. His body his pain. Gasping. My breaths are gasps.

Will they stop? When will they stop?

I—he curls his body, wrapping his tiny arms around his head. Protecting my body. Green blood pours into his eyes, blinding me.

"—Abomination—"

SMACK! KICK!

SCREAM!

Tiny hands tighten around my head. They are hurting him. A tiny four year old boy.

"—put this down—"

They want to kill me. His young mind, so young, so innocent. It knows this. He can process this. He knows this. He doesn't understand. I don't understand. But he knows they don't like him. They don't want him to live.

Mother!

She won't be back. She can't save you. They tell me over and over. They taunt him. Tell him how she screamed, begged for her life. Tell me how she was a whore, spreading her legs for that Vulcan. How her legs were spread for them.

He's only four.

She's dead.

A hand tangles itself in my hair and pulls him up. Pull him up to his tiny little legs. So young. So small.

A fist strikes and he cries.

Someone yells. Someone new.

I'm released, fall to the ground, curl into a small ball. Block it out. Retreat to the mind. There is no pain, no sorrow.

Emotions run deep within our race. In some ways, deeper than in humans.

Emotions are illogical.

A hand on his back. A new face. I open my eyes.

Hi. My name is Christopher. I am taking you home.

Where is home? Not home. It was not home. It will never be home.

* * *

Do as I say and you will be rewarded. Disobey and you will pay. SMACK! I didn't tell you that you could do that! PUNCH! Disobey me again.

It becomes home.

Only a few emotions are logical. Anger. Hatred. I feel both. So does he.

A jerking nauseating feeling.

A fist strikes. My fist. His fist. A sickening sound, flesh bone crumbling collapsing under powerful blows. Cheers around me around him. The haze retreats, he looks.

Christopher—Captain Pike—is there. Smiling. Clapping.

Look to the floor. Boy is a bloody heap. Blood spews from nose mouth ears. The boy will die if he does not receive medical attention.

He doesn't.

I should have helped him. But to help would bring punishment.

So he didn't.

I look around at these men surrounding me, watching him, cheering. I am an animal in their eyes, a spectacle. They enjoy watching the young Vulcan male fight their own children, kill their own weak sons. Weak men have no place in Empire. Weak men will bring it down. It is only logical to eliminate those weaker ones before the damage is done.

Christopher—he tried to get me, him to call him Father; he refuses. Not his father. Never his father.

My father is missing.

Is he dead?

They don't tell him.

—SMACK! CRACK!

Another one goes down. They cheer. They want blood.

He'll give them blood.

I want their blood. He wants to see them bleed, he wants to see them suffer.

As he has suffered.

* * *

Captain Pike holds him steady. He tells him, tells me that I am going to be a stellar addition to Starfleet. He doesn't care that I don't want to. He doesn't care that he wants to run.

But where? He doesn't know where he could go. So he must stay.

They will fear him.

The cadets part like the Red Sea—a sea of red uniforms; fitting—when he walks down the corridors. Good, I think, he thinks. These humans are despicable, deplorable. He has seen what they do to those they don't understand, the aliens they encounter. He has seen what they do to their own women, their weaker ones.

I have participated in those acts.

His dick entered the bodies of women; I watched the tears flow from the eyes of those women. He heard their cries.

Women are needed only to provide children for the future and to provide a release for these violent sexual yearnings the men felt. They were weaker, smaller. They had no place in this grand Empire. They could not run the Empire, they could not protect the Empire.

He takes his pleasure from the women. They don't matter to me. They have served their purpose.

How does a species control an entire Empire when half of their population is weak? He wonders this often.

Does that make him deplorable? Yes. I know I—he is no different than those men he serves with, those men he despises, to whom he views himself as superior. But he doesn't fight it. It is illogical to waste effort on something that cannot be changed. He tried. I tried.

We have suffered greatly for that transgression, when we demanded to know why. Our body bore the marks of punishment for months afterwards. He won't let it happen again. They want me to be a monster. An unfeeling killing machine they can call upon when they need something done. He will give them what they want.

He will bide his time. But bide his time for what? He knows of no other life other than this one. I have been here for so long, been taught the rules, the laws. Aliens and women are inferior; they are weak. Vulcans are weak, clinging desperately to an outdated way of life that was their downfall. But I...he is different. He is Vulcan. But he is also a man. And he is powerful.

The cadets fear him. Good.

He looks up. A new cadet. Fresh. Green. Different. I know the difference immediately. How is she able to escape discovery? How do these men not see her feminine body hidden beneath an ill-fitting uniform?

Why is she here? He wants to know; the curiosity, the desire for her threatens to overtake him. I've never seen a woman as brave—foolish as this one. She looks at me.

Why don't I report her? He wants to fuck her. Make her his.

Another jolt.

* * *

He hasn't been home since he was four years old. He doesn't understand Vulcan culture any longer. He does not belong among them. They do not want him here.

I walk the Starfleet base in Shi'Kahr. The Vulcans steer clear of him, of his stark uniform—a constant and harsh reminder that he is not one of them.

He shouldn't care. But he does.

Pike wishes for him to forget his Vulcan past. View himself as human, as superior to these simpering aliens who believe peace will prevail. No. Peace will not. Offering peace has been their downfall. How do they not understand this? This is supposed to be an intelligent species.

Among them, he wonders. Does my father reside on this planet? In this city? He must know.

He finds her. His family. His grandmother. He is in awe of how quickly she forgives his transgressions. How quickly she takes me under her wing.

You must learn to control your emotions, my child. Emotions run deep within our race. Sometimes deeper than in humans—he knows this; where has he heard it before?—but if you do not control them, if you do not attempt to seek serenity within logic and harness those emotions, they will destroy you.

She reaches out and places her hand on his crown, patting his cheek. He has not experienced kindness like this. Not from Christopher.

She shows him. She teaches him. I learn. It is difficult and he struggles. He grows frustrated. I lash out. But she is patient.

One day, I ask. Where is Father? She doesn't know. He was taken when I was, when Mother was.

I am unable to learn more.

They order him to return to Starfleet Academy. He bids his grandmother farewell. With a promise to visit again.

* * *

A loud gasp. He struggles as I struggle. He knows what she is. She is a woman. It has been so long since he's touched one. And here I am, alone in a darkened room, defenseless, half-nude and exposed to him. He approaches her. Touches her. He desires her. He knows this. Has since that first moment in the hallway, watching her amongst the clueless men. So strong, so fragile. He wants her.

So, he has her.

He feels her beneath him, clinging to him. And he moves against her, inside of her. She is a good woman. Her body is soft, pliable. She gives herself to him. Willingly. Unwillingly. He doesn't concern himself with this. These details don't matter; they've never mattered to any other man. The pleasure he derives from her, that he gives her.

He is surprised by the feeling of unrest and uncertainty that her tears stir within him. It unnerves him.

I must meditate. Emotions—emotions other than anger—will make him weaker. He cannot allow that.

* * *

The sight of her, this beautiful woman who came to him on his orders, who allowed him to enter her body...she is invading his property. She is looking at that photograph, that photograph he struggled for so long to forget existed—but he is Vulcan and a Vulcan never forgets—she looks at that picture. And he realizes...she has betrayed his trust.

But how? How can she betray me so fast when this is new? She does not trust me, does not like me.

He reacts before he thinks. He grabs me, grabs her and slams her against his desk. She cannot know about his past. She must be reprimanded. If he lets her get away with this—he trusted her—it will only be the beginning.

He strips her. This is nothing new for him. I have punished women before. She cannot be allowed to get away with this.

She cries. She screams. He halts.

Her tears disarm him.

And he realizes...already, he has allowed her to take shelter inside his stone-cold heart. When she cried against him, when he wrapped his arms around her, hesitant. He told himself...he would protect her.

We maintain order by instilling fear into our subjects. Barbaric. But effective.

He betrayed her trust, as well.

* * *

I feel like I'm drowning. I'm so far into his mind, his twisted mind...I wonder—

Pain. Tendrils of his pain weave, force their way into my mind.

Can I escape? Am I trapped? It's so strong, so powerful. These thoughts, these...these emotions. Which are his? Which are mine? Are they the same?

I feel a tightness in my chest—is it my chest? Is it his? I can't tell—and I want out. I want to escape. But I feel his grip tighten. He doesn't want to free me yet.

 _We have not seen it yet_.

Is that my thought? How can I know? It's so confusing, his mind. Seen what? What does he want me to see? Why can't he show me?

I gasp.

Or do I scream?

* * *

He enters a room. Cold. Dark. His voice echoes against the metallic walls, ordering the computer to turn the lights on.

The room is flooded with cold harsh lighting. In the middle of the room, there she is, trussed to a metal table, nude. Her green skin, pale, bruised. She shivers.

We approach. Her eyes widen. She knows him. But how?

Please, she whimpers. She bleeds. She cries.

I hesitate. He doesn't understand why. She isn't any different than the others. But she says his name. She knows me and he doesn't know her. He never gives his name.

I can't give them power by giving them his name. They can use it to tear him down, to weaken him. No, they can't know his name.

But she does. How does she know?

There is nothing he can do. He has his orders. This Orion, nude and bleeding, is a traitor. She must die. She is to be executed.

A man, well respected, told the Special Forces of her. Told us that she was working with someone on the inside to destroy the Empire. But how, he wonders. She is a woman. An Orion woman. An alien. They are powerless. They are nothing.

That's what he's been taught; but it grows more difficult to believe it.

And you, Commander? You are alien, are you not?

He could just as easily be where she is. He is an alien. Like her. One false step, no matter how small, and he'd be here, strapped to the metal gurney, or strewn up like a martyr.

He fears it. Lives with it haunting him.

She looks at him, at me. Tears stream down her face and he's reminded of another. Of her. He cannot deal with her tears.

He causes most of them. Deplorable.

He steps away from her. She calls out to me. Begging.

She wants to live. Of course, she wants to live. That is the natural order of things. It's only logical to seek survival. Even if one must live the life this Orion would be forced into, has been forced into, she would do it. Because she wants to live.

He doesn't understand why.

He wants to leave the room. He cannot involve himself with her. He cannot.

She will be dead the next time he sees her. Her blood on his hands. Her life seized by his blade.

He cannot concern himself with his conflicting emotions. I can't.

She will be dead when I, when she confronts him. When she demands to know why he does this, why doesn't he care?

But, he thinks, I feel it permeate my skin. He does care. He shouldn't. It is illogical to concern himself with this Orion that he's never met before, that he doesn't know, but she knows him. He shouldn't concern himself with me, with that woman who thinks she can infiltrate the Academy and not get caught. She is foolish, he thinks. Foolish and brave.

There are orders to follow. And he has his. She is to be executed for her crimes against the Empire. There is nothing he can do to change it.

He pretends that he is unconcerned with it. Pretends to be unaffected by her cries, her begging.

But I feel that concern, that self-loathing enter my brain — maybe it's still his brain, I'm so confused, so lost — and he can't deny it. It would be illogical to deny it to himself.

He hates what he does.

The walls must return. He's confused. He hasn't felt like this in years. He roamed the corridors of Starfleet Headquarters, of the Academy for years without concern for anyone. None of the people around him matters. Even the corridors on Vulcan posed no threat to me. The placid looks of disdain—amazing how a stoic race is capable of emitting such hatred, such emotion, without actually showing any—did not stir his blood.

I try to tell myself that. He does. Maybe he'll believe it one day.

Blades—his blades—enter her flesh. She screams.

The Orion is dead. Dead because of him. He shouldn't care.

He does.

* * *

They are starting to wonder about him. He knows it. He sees it in their faces when they look at him. The Vulcan is faltering. He has stood before Admiral Barnett, before Captain Pike so many times lately. And they've all asked him the same thing.

 _Where do your loyalties lie, Commander?_

 _With the Empire, sir. And only with the Empire._

I ignore the fact that maybe—just maybe; he still refuses to voice his struggle—those are lies. But the Empire promises protection, power. Where would he be without it?

He believes his superiors are attempting to test him. With each execution I am ordered to carry out, the difficulty to do so without faltering in his logic—or emotion—increases.

But they must have seen his faltering. Because they sent him his ultimate test.

 _Do you know what will happen to you if you're lying, Commander?_

 _Yes, sir. I will be executed._

* * *

My stomach recoils, bile burns my throat. And I walk into that dreadful room, where so many have died at his hand, on his orders.

He steps into the room, his hands clasped behind his back, his nails digging into his flesh. He hates this room — I feel the seething hatred permeate my being, threatening to overwhelm me. A rumbling volcano of emotion he struggles so desperately to hold at bay, to press down. How does he?

A figure sits on the opposite side, slumped awkwardly in the chair, his hands tied behind his back, a black linen bag on his head. His body illuminated by the faint lighting coming from the window placed high on the way behind him. The moonlight casts a glow around the male figure.

I hesitate in his steps for a moment.

He regains his fragile control and continues forward. The black linen bag is removed. I drop it to the floor.

The prisoner's ears are pointed, curved at the tips. This, he notices first. Vulcan. They sent me a Vulcan to interrogate.

 _A test?_ This thought runs through his mind and he steps back, clasping his hands behind his back once more. A semblance of control, control that he doesn't feel. Why have they brought him a Vulcan?

He...I look at the Vulcan male before us, still slumped in the metal chair, his arms restrained. He is older, his long hair is graying. His sightless eyes stare ahead, glazed, surrounded by scarring.

His sightless eyes.

He's been blinded by someone at some point. Logic tells me, tells him that the scars were inflicted during this Vulcan's imprisonment. The scars framing the glassy orbs, cutting across his face, appear old.

I look at the black bag the Commander threw on the floor. That bag was not for this prisoner. It was for him. For me.

A test, indeed. What is the purpose? I have not seen this Vulcan since—

The restrained Vulcan breathes, his chest heaving with the effort. Tilts his head. "Who is there?"

The Commander remains silent. He studies the figure before him, a sense of familiarity tingles at the back of my mind.

The prisoner struggles to sit erect, pressing against the back of the chair. "I have nothing to say to you."

"That is a possibility. Though I must remind you that it would be in your best interest to inform me what you know of the Rebellion."

Silence. He shifts in his hard metal prison. Then, "I have been a prisoner of the Empire for twenty-two years, ten months, and twenty-eight days. I know nothing. As I have informed my interrogator before you and the one before him."

Calculations rush through my mind, the Commander's mind. Twenty-two years, ten months, and twenty-eight days. Twenty-two years, ten months, twenty-eight days ago, his mother –

"You are Vulcan, are you not?"

The prisoner's words startle me. Startle him. It takes a moment to respond. "I am." Vulcan? Human? Which one is he, really? Would a Vulcan do the things he's done? A human would.

Maybe he's not worthy of being a Vulcan.

"A Vulcan within the Empire's army? Please, where is the logic of a Vulcan serving in the very Starfleet slaughtering his own people?"

I straighten my back, clinching my hands behind my back. _How dare he judge me?_ The thought—not my thought—echoes through my mind. Races.

This is a test. A test of loyalty.

I know of no other way.

"Forgive me if I have overstepped my boundaries."

"You have." Exceedingly polite for a prisoner and his jailor.

The Commander steps away from his prisoner, his blind Vulcan prisoner, and approaches the tray that had been set up. On it—I cringe—tools, sharp. He grabs one, metal scraping across metal, grinding.

"I understand what is to happen now." The Vulcan speaks so calmly, so controlled. As if he is unaware of the tortures, the pains, the death that is coming. I want to scream, yell at him. Tell him to cry out, find a way to live. But this isn't my memory. This isn't under my control. I want out of his mind.

The Commander approaches, blade in hand, the sharp edge catching the moonlight seeping into the room.

"I understand you have orders that you must follow. I am not the only one on trial here. They are testing your loyalty, are they not?"

"What would you know of it?" Harsh. Biting. The words spill from the Commander's lips before he can stop them. He is ashamed of his lack of emotional control. Especially in front of this Vulcan. One who oozes authority, demands respect, even in his bedraggled, broken state.

"The soldiers who brought me here. They seemed to be under the belief that I had been deafened, not blinded. They spoke loudly. They do not trust you."

The Commander's feet move forward and I am powerless to stop his motions. I want to drop that blade, I want to free this Vulcan. I want to run. I can do nothing.

"That is irrelevant."

"Before you do what you must, I have one final request."

I halt, the blade trembling at his side. He shouldn't ask. He shouldn't care. But he— "What is your request?"

The Vulcan takes a deep breath and releases it slowly. "I had a son. He was with my wife and me when we were captured. I know what has become of my wife—I felt the Bond shatter—but I do not know what has become of my son. I wish to know his fate."

The Commander halts. Falters. A coincidence? Perhaps. Unlikely, however. "What is your son's name?"

"Spock."

A gasp threatens to escape the Commander's stiff lips. He reins it in. I struggle to maintain that cold façade. Our grasp of the blade falters. "You are Sarek?"

The imprisoned Vulcan sags in his chair, straining against his bonds. His sightless eyes stare at the floor. "I am."

Silence reigns. The Commander—his mind is racing: calculations, memories, they fly so fast and I feel sick. Nauseous.

I want out.

He won't let me. I must see this. I can hear his mind tell me.

"Do you have knowledge of my son?"

A deep breath. "I do. He stands before you."

Silence. I want out. I feel my heart pounding in my chest. It will burst, explode. I try to pull away. I try to pull out of his mind. But I'm lost.

A cry.

Mine?

He seizes me, his mind gripping mine. _No. You must see._

Why? Why must I see? I don't want to see. I struggle for breath.

* * *

"You must kill me." The simplicity and matter-of-fact nature of the statement belied the intensity of the request.

"I..." The Commander stumbles over his words. I have not heard such uncertainty from him.

"You must. If you do not, they will know that your loyalties lie elsewhere."

I look at the blade in his hand. His shaking hand. He wants me to—

I can't.

But I have no choice. The Commander steps forward. And I just a passenger.

Jolt.

* * *

 _I fear we may have a security breach here at the Academy. Do you know anything?_

 _I do not, Captain._

 _If you are lying to us, Commander, I will personally see to it that you suffer the consequences. I will not have any officer of mine—_

 _I speak the truth, sir._

* * *

The blood, green as emeralds, as the grass after a drenching rain, pours from Sarek's—the Commander's father—throat. I step back, dropping the blade to the hard cold floor.

The broken Vulcan—a Vulcan who must have been regal, elegant at one time—chokes, gags, sputters. His life drains from him.

My head pounds. My heart shatters.

Let me out! I want to scream. I don't want to see anymore.

The Commander – I step forward when the prisoner's body slumps in the chair. He is dead. It is over.

The door opens, a loud clanking noise slicing through the stillness, and Admiral Barnett enters.

Commends me on my job.

The Commander says nothing. He is aware of the green blood staining his uniform. Of the dead father behind him. The son had slain the father.

Over.

Done.

He is loyal.

He fought for so long to find his father. His desperation. His pain. They press so tightly inside me. I struggle to breath.

Vulcans seek to suppress their emotions because they run so deep within. To allow oneself to be victim to those emotions would destroy him. Suppression is necessary for the continuation of the species.

It takes much of the Commander's little training to suppress the rage, the sorrow, the pain in front of the admiral.

He sequesters those rampaging emotions from the admiral. But I feel them. I feel all of them. Every last one. There is no buffer. No barrier.

I'm drowning in his emotions. I struggle for breath. Gasping. Pleading.

I feel like I'm dying.


	21. The Illusion Within a Severed Reality

The pressure, his presence leaves—the ironclad shackles vanish; I'm alone—and I'm reeling.

A gasp. A scream. A sob.

My eyes are closed, squeezed against the pain. My sobs, my desperate intakes of air fill the room—I'm hyperventilating, I vaguely acknowledge; my chest heaves with the effort—echoes bounce off the metallic walls. I jump away and his fingertips fall from my face. I have to get away from him.

Away. I collapse against a wall. Hands to my face. Try to keep the tears in. Don't want to cry. Crying hasn't helped me. It won't help me.

Enough crying.

So hard.

So bright.

I want to forget. So much pain.

"I apologize, Nyota. Emotional transference is an effect of a mind meld." So calm. He's so calm. How?

I want to die.

My hands scratch at the carpet beneath me. My head collides with the wall behind me, the loud thump reverberating through my body.

Is this sorrow, this pain what he feels constantly? Is this what he deals with all the time? I don't want it.

He's kneeling in front of me; the robes he's wearing are opened, further revealing his naked chest. I jump. I didn't see him move. I didn't see him approach me.

"I fear it may have been exacerbated by your own traumatic event." His hands hovers in the air. Is he going to touch me? Why didn't he? Never stopped before.

I stare at his alabaster skin, so smooth to my touch, like silk. I remember how it felt to have his skin under my hands. I remember how his skin felt beneath my lips. Moving against mine. How could someone so rough, so hard feel so...gentle? I take a breath. A deep breath. I look at him. His face is blurred, my tears won't stop. Why won't they stop? I meet his gaze. I struggle through the pain, his pain, my pain.

"You've experienced something traumatic recently, have you not? During my absence."

No. I can't. I won't.

I shake my head. Tears fall.

The Commander reaches out and touches my hands, which I hold close to my chest.

I gasp. I jerk away, my hands clenching. My eyes dart around the room. I need to get away from him. Too much. Too much. I push him away—he doesn't fight me—and I run to the bathroom. I am a coward. I ran. I always run. I always give in.

It's easier.

The lights come on when I enter. And I'm confronted by my reflection in the full-length mirror. I can't escape. I can't hide. I walk to the mirror; I stand in front of it. Broken. That's what I see. A broken girl with broken dreams and a broken life. A girl who thought she could do something so amazing, so wonderful. A girl who thought she could overcome her life's adversities and save everyone from the oppressive Empire.

But that's the problem, isn't it?

No one with any power, with any authority sees the Empire as broken. No one sees it as an issue. It is as it always has been. For years and years. Centuries. Men controlling, men living. Men. It's their world. And the women, the aliens, we are less.

Why fight it?

Who decides what's less? Why are we strapped down to a life like this?

Tears are falling from my eyes and I don't even bother stopping them. What's the point? He knows I'm crying. I hear him just outside the door. Breathing. Pacing. What does he want with me? Why does he care?

Why did he decide to show me all of that? He's remained silent during all this time, during all the times he's taken me into his bed. During all the times I've cried in his arms.

I didn't want to know. I didn't want to see.

I didn't want any of this. The Commander. Robau. Gaila. Pike. All of it. I just wanted to save the Empire.

I laugh. So uncontrollable. So inappropriate. I laugh. I giggle. I cry.

Save the Empire. Save the Empire from what? What does it need saving from? Itself? Depends on who you talk to, I guess. I'm sure the Commander would say that the Empire needs to be kept safe from the Rebellion. We can't have the Empire collapsing, shattering. Where would we be left? What would happen if we somehow managed to destroy the foundation of the Empire? Would things change? Or would they simply rebuild it, leaving it the same?

He's outside, directly outside. I feel so attuned to his presence right now. I guess the mind meld is the reason.

He knocks.

I don't answer.

Laughing, crying, I lean against the mirror, pressing my forehead, my body against the cool surface. I stare at myself. At this stranger in front of me. With dead eyes. With so much sorrow. I just want it to end. I don't want to live here anymore.

I hate this place. I hate the Commander. I hate his hands on my body. I hate my body's betrayal, its unrelenting yearning for his touch. I hate Robau. He promised me. He promised me so much. And he took it all. He took everything from me.

Took everything from me in a way that the Commander never has.

Who is my enemy? The Commander, who represents the Empire, who supports the Empire? The Vulcan Commander who ordered me to his bed under threat of arrest, of torture? The Vulcan who hurt me and attacked me? The Vulcan who held me when I cried, when I broke? I've been told he's my enemy. But he's also saved me. Why? But I'm so confused. I'm so lost.

Is it Robau? How can it be him? He saved me. He took me from the streets. He helped me. He gave me a home, a purpose in my life. He brought me to this place, telling me I could be a hero. He broke me. He stole my trust, my dignity. And for what? Why? Why did he do that? Why did he betray me like that? I can't understand it.

I don't want to be here.

I look at myself in the mirror. This young woman, whose eyes bear into mine...I don't know her. I can't stop laughing. I can't stop crying.

I bring my hands up, press them against the smooth surface. My nails—dirty, broken—scrape across the surface. But they're ineffective. They don't do anything. No marks. No dents. My fists clench.

Does the Commander know how much I've suffered? Does he understand what he does to me every time he touches me, presses his body against mine, slips inside of me? Does he know? Does he know what he did to me when he left? He left me and I was here, alone. Alone with the man I thought I could trust, the man who gave me every reason to trust him, a man who took that trust and shattered it.

I raise my fists and bring them down on the mirror. It rattles. I slam my fists into the mirror again. I want it to break. I want it to shatter. My sobs grow louder.

Then I scream, pressing my forehead against the mirror, staring at myself, my wet dead eyes. I want to feel the mirror shatter under my hands, under my face. I want it shatter into a million pieces and fly everywhere. Make me bleed. Give me something to ignore this pain lingering in my chest, pressing against my heart, suffocating me. Shatter. Fly towards me. Cut me. Slice my face, my eyes.

I'm already scarred. What's a few more?

The door opens—the lock disengages and it slides open with a quiet swoosh—and the Commander enters.

"Nyota." He says nothing more—a man of few words, that Vulcan—and I hear him approach me.

I should push him away. I should shove him and run. I should run away from all of this. I should. But I won't.

I still don't know where to go.

How dare he show me all of his memories. How dare he. I didn't want to know. I didn't want to see.

He touches my shoulder and I jump, jerking away from his touch, pressing my body into the mirror. Step through it, enter another universe. Maybe a kinder one, a nicer one.

Crazy thought.

"Nyota." He always says my name. He touches me again, his hand resting on the back of my neck. His fingers cool.

"Please, don't touch me." I don't want his touch because it's so hard to say no to his touch. I always want his touch. Whether it's gentle or it's rough.

His hand drops. "I did not intend to cause you such distress."

I shake my head, pulling my face away from the mirror, pressing my shoulders against it. "Why? Why did you do that to me?"

"I felt that you needed to know. You needed to understand my behavior, my decisions. I understand that I have been unrelenting towards you."

No. That's not it. That's not it at all. He left me. He left me and I was alone with Robau and he grew mad and he—

I can't.

I shake my head again. "No. Why didn't you take me?"

He's silent. He doesn't answer me. I feel him step away from me.

I turn my head to the side, looking at his profile. His stern, stoic profile.

"What happened to you?" He doesn't look at me.

I open my mouth to...to what? To tell him? Why would I do that? He doesn't care.

"I know that something grave has befallen you. While we were in the meld, I did not seek knowledge of your own thoughts and emotions; I assure you. However, your pain is great. I could not escape it."

I turn away from the mirror, stepping away from it to face him. My hands hang at my sides, my tears subside. "What happened to me was no different than what has happened to me before, what happens to women all the time. To whores." I spit the word out; the Commander called me that. The last time I saw him, before he took off and left me behind. He called me that and if he had any remorse, any reaction for that, he doesn't show me. I take a breath. "I am not in control. I am powerless. He wanted to remind me."

"Who?" He looks at me.

"It doesn't matter." Because it doesn't. If it wasn't him, it'd be someone else. It could be this Vulcan standing beside me. It almost was. Several times.

"It does." Simple words. He looks at me.

I crumble.

He catches me.

* * *

He takes me to the bedroom, setting me on the bed. I told him. I told him what Robau did to me. I told him. He said nothing throughout my sobbing story.

It's done. He knows.

He leaves me alone in the bed and retreats from the room. I hear him searching for something. Medicine, maybe? I don't know. I don't care. Not anymore.

He returns with his arms laden with some sort of medical supplies. He places them on the bedside table. Kneeling in front of me, he brushes a tear from my face—funny, I wasn't even aware they were still falling.

"I must heal your injuries." He hesitates—how odd—and then continues. "I must remove your clothing."

My eyes drop down. I'm still wearing my uniform, dirty, unclean; it droops on my frame. I nod.

He brings his hands to the buttons on the top. His nimble fingers work on them, releasing them, opening the rough material. Revealing my naked body underneath. The Commander slides the jacket down my arms and it lands on the bed behind me.

My eyes close.

"You are fortunate no man observed you too closely on your journey."

"What?" I open my eyes.

He motions to my chest and I follow with my gaze, looking at my bruised naked chest. My breasts rise and fall with my deeps breaths. Oh. I didn't bother with that damn constricting cloth. I don't remember what happened to it, to be honest. I guess—I guess Robau has it. I look away.

The Commander grasps my elbows and helps me stand. His hands settle on the buttons fastening my pants.

I gasp and my hands cover his. "N-no."

"Nyota." His voice is a whisper, caressing the still air around us. "I must remove all of your clothing to tend to your injuries. I assure you, I have no intentions in coitus."

I squeeze my eyes closed, tears fall. My hands inch toward his shoulders. My fingers grasp, digging into his flesh, my knuckles whiten.

His hands return to my pants. And he unfastens them, pushing them down my legs, and they fall in a heap around my feet. He grasps my waist in a soft grip and helps me step out of them, kicking them away.

He helps me on the bed, laying me on the mattress. Turning away, he retrieves something. A medical tool probably. I stare at him. I don't speak. I don't cry. I'm just tired. So tired.

"I will need you to spread your legs for me."

Of course, he does. It shouldn't be too difficult. That's what I'm good at, right? I do it, staring at the ceiling. He should take me to sickbay, let a medical doctor take care of it, but he can't. Because I'm not supposed to be here.

I'm breaking the law.

And so is he. I guess. By not telling anyone that I'm here.

I hear him. I feel him. I feel the cold metal of the medical instruments against my flesh. I wince. Tears fall.

I gasp and bring my hands to my eyes, pressing my palms against my eyes. Keeping my eyes closed, I run my hands through my hair, my fingers catching in knots, tangles. I guess I've been neglecting combing. It hurts. A sob escapes.

I still feel him. Working between my legs, moving those instruments this way and that, hovering, healing. I want to die.

How can I lie here and let him do this? Why is he helping me? Is it because he doesn't want anything to prevent him from taking his pleasure, giving me mine? Why?

He speaks my name. His head is down, his brow furrowed. He's concentrating. Working. "Nyota, I had yearned for the day when I found him, my biological father."

Why? God, why is he talking about this? I don't want to know. I don't. I don't want to hear his voice as he's between my legs, fixing the mess that another man left behind. I can't do this. But he doesn't know my thoughts. He doesn't understand me. He doesn't understand what it's like—of course he doesn't; how could he? He's a male, he's lived a privileged life—so he keeps talking while I stare at the ceiling.

"And though it is illogical, I have oft imagined what my life could have been if I had been allowed to remain with my biological parents, if my mother had been allowed to live. If I had been allowed to remain with them, I would not have been malleable for the humans. I would not have adopted their societal expectations." He pauses; the medical equipment whirls. "Perhaps, if I had been allowed to remain with my parents, I would not have treated you in such a manner. Though it is logical to assume that we never would have met, because it is unlikely I would have found myself in Starfleet. I would have spent my life on Vulcan. And you, here."

What if? What if? If this had happened, then this wouldn't have. Why is he talking about this stuff? Why is he, a Vulcan, talking about what-if's? Does he not understand that it doesn't matter? Nothing matters.

Why is he doing this? Some sort of penance? I don't want it. Not now. I don't know if I ever will.

"Please." My voice cracks, tears burn the back of my throat. "Please, don't talk. Don't talk to me. Please." I can't handle it, not with him down there, not with those things whirling and lighting up and tingling my skin.

"As you wish."

He remains silent the rest of the time.

I'm so tired.

So I let my eyes close.


	22. The Dream Within a Nightmare

I sleep.

And I dream.

I don't really remember what I dreamt. Maybe it was something amazing, spectacular. Maybe it was mundane, not worthy of remembrance.

I'd like to believe it's some wonderful dream where there's a crowd. A ceremony. I stand in the middle of it all, surrounded by cheering people. My eyes drop and I see that I'm wearing a Starfleet uniform. Fitted, proper.

A man approaches me. An admiral. Dressed in his sleek black attire. He's smiling. Weird. He reaches out and grasps my outstretched hand, shaking it. "Congratulations, Cadet."

Congratulations? Congratulations for what?

I'd like to think that maybe I dreamed of a place where I could enter Starfleet Academy as myself, as a woman. And I would be recognized for my service, my commendations. And I wouldn't have to fear anything because I'm a woman. I'd like to think that maybe, just maybe I dreamed that I'm equal.

It'd be a nice dream, I think.

But that's all it'd be. A dream. A dream within this nightmare of a life.

Maybe I dreamed of a life where I could have it all. A career, a life. I wonder if the Commander would still be a part of a that life. If we lived in some other world, would he still want me? Would I want him? Would we fall in love—what is love? I can't help but wonder, because I don't think it's real, not here—and live our lives free of the travesties of this place.

But that's all it'd ever be.

A dream.

* * *

There's a strange sense of déjà vu when I wake. I've done this before. My eyes open, blinking to clear them. The sun rises again, and its warm light again dances across the sheets, dancing with the tousling tree branches. I sit up, letting the sheets fall from my nude body. A robe has been placed on the end of the mattress. The Commander is not in here.

I still hurt, I still ache. I grimace and swing my legs over the edge of the bed. He showed me something last night. I want to forget it. I just want—

I don't know. I don't know what I want. I know that I wanted to die. I know that. I wanted that so badly that I'd prepared myself, I held that knife in my hands.

Do I still want to die? I wish I knew.

I rise from the bed and grab the robes the Commander left for me. Wrapping them around my body, I move to the exit.

I've done this before, too. I've broken down and let him hold me, help me. And then, well...there's no point in revisiting that, is there?

It's quiet in the living room; the Commander is not seated at his desk. Not like last time. There's the smell of incense. The same from last night. Distinctly Vulcan.

He's sitting on the floor, legs crossed, hands in his lap. Eyes closed. Sitting in front of his _asenoi_ , a plume of incense rising from it.

I walk toward him, my steps silent on the carpeted floor. I need a shower. My hair is tangled and feels gross. I—do you know that I can't remember when my last shower was? How could I forget that? Seems like something I'd remember.

I lower myself to the ground and sit in front of him, crossing my legs as well. He doesn't move, doesn't acknowledge me. I take a deep breath. "What are you doing?"

His eyes open and he locks his gaze with mine. "I am attempting to meditate, to clear my mind." His eyes close again. "The past twenty days have been difficult. My emotional control is wavering. I must correct that." He lapses into silence once more.

I stare at him. There's nothing else to do. Nothing else to say. Not for now. So, I watch him, drawing my legs to my chest, resting my chin against my knees.

He knows. He knows what happened to me. He saw my body, he fixed it. My face burns with the memory of his hands, his cold instruments upon my bruised and torn flesh. What does he think of me? Would he want me anymore? Would he want another man's castoffs? And why do I care? Isn't that what I wanted? For him to leave me alone?

He takes deep steady breaths, releasing them in long deep exhalations, but otherwise remains still. I envy him, I really do. I envy his ability to push all the emotions, trauma into the back of his mind. So that he can just focus on what's important, what he can change. I wish I could do that. I wish I had an off switch for these things. Maybe I would have been able to ignore what Robau—

Why can't I forget him? Why do I always think about him? I don't want to. I just want to forget. I just want... Can he help me? Am I capable of receiving help or is it useless? I've heard tales—the professors here at the Academy would tell us things—about Vulcans and their mind melds. Never trust a Vulcan. They can make you forget your own name, they say. Make you do things you don't want to do with a simple brush of the fingertips. And never—ever, it was stressed—let them touch your face. They'll steal your thoughts, implant their own. Manipulate you. I speak. "Your mind melding thing...can it make someone forget?" My voice cracks.

He opens his eyes again. He tilts himself forward. "You are experiencing memory loss?"

I wish I was. Make things easier, wouldn't it? I shake my head. "I just want to know if it can." Tell me they've lied to us again. Make me hate them more, make me forget. Can I have both?

"There was an ancient ritual Vulcans could employ to suppress memories and the emotions associated with them. It is called _Fulara_."

Robau hovering over me as I struggle to remain conscious, as I struggle to get him off me. My parents holding me down and watching as the Admiral took my innocence. The Commander—his soft firm voice ordering me to comply, my compliance. They can forget. Vulcans can forget what they don't want to remember. I want to. I need to. Tears burn the backs of my eyes. There's a ritual and I can forget. "Can you do it to me?"

His gaze does not waver from mine. "I cannot."

A sob escapes me before I can catch it and stuff it back inside. I don't want to admit it, but those two words, they threaten to break me. He wants me to suffer, doesn't he? He doesn't care about me. Of course, he doesn't. Why would he? I'm nothing. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you angry." I must have made him angry; of course, I did. "But, please, let me forget." If I could forget, I could move forward.

He tilts his head to the side. "This has nothing to do with any anger I may harbor towards you. I do not know the ritual. I fear no one does, Nyota. The ritual is obsolete. As my ancestors learned to control their emotions and to put their faith in logic, its practice has long been erased from Vulcan society."

My sobs catch in my throat and I struggle to keep them down. I nod. Defeated, I stumble over my words. "Of—of course. I understand." My eyes dart around the room. It's closing in. I don't want to live the rest of my life with these memories. I want—I want to forget. How can I complete my mission when I feel so lost, so alone?

"Nyota, what is it that you wish to forget?"

How can he ask me that? He knows. He knows what's happened to me. I told him. I told him everything. "All of it. I don't want to remember." I just want to forget. Is it so hard to understand? Can't he understand that? If he had a choice, wouldn't he want to forget what the Starfleet soldiers did to him when he was a child? Wouldn't he want to pretend it didn't happen?

"It is our past that makes us who we are today."

I shake my head. No. "I don't want to be who I am. I don't want any of this." Because who I am...she's weak, pathetic. Shameful. Who I am...she hates this Vulcan's touch and yearns for it, too. She's so desperate for someone to understand her that she clings to him. She clings to some twisted hope that he does understand her. I shouldn't. I shouldn't want to be near him. Why can't he understand me? I rise to my feet, stepping toward the bedroom, where my uniform lies on the floor. I need out of here. "I have class tomorrow. I-I need to go. I need—"

He stands, stepping over his incense burner and toward me. "You do not have class tomorrow. Or any day after that. I took the liberty of informing your professors of your withdrawal."

My mouth opens, closes. "What?" He...he withdrew me from my classes?

"You do not belong here."

"What?" I repeat. My heart races in my chest. If he withdrew me from my classes, where can I go? I can't go back to Robau. I can't go back to the streets or the whorehouse. Is...is he forcing me to leave?

I wanted to run earlier; I packed my bags. But I still don't know where I was going to go. I'm not sure I was ever going to run. Running away is so terrifying that death felt easier.

He places his hands behind his back, adopting that stance he uses when he wants no argument; I hate it when he stands like that. "Starfleet Academy. You do not belong here."

"Why? Because I'm a woman? Because I'm less than the men, less than you?" My voice is growing loud. I don't care. If I have to scream, I will. If I'm not at the Academy, where can I go?

"You do not belong here because you are placing yourself in unnecessary danger. This place is destroying you."

Destroying—Is it? Am I slowly dying here? If someone is already dead inside, how can they die again? I am living dead. I don't live; I struggle to take each and every breath, to make it to the end of the day, only to start the same heartbreaking thing the next morning. Where can I run? "I have nowhere else to go. I can't return to where I came from. I can't go back to my parents—I could never go back to them, not after what they did to me. Where do you expect me to go?" If he wants me to run, he has a plan. Right?

"If you remain here, as a student, you will surely die. You will grow weary. Your control will slip and your secret will be discovered by someone else. Someone who will not seek to protect you. He will claim you."

My eyes slam shut. He says it so...emotionlessly, so coldly... And I'm struck with harsh nightmarish reality. He doesn't really care about it, about me, about what I've been through. His gentleness last night was nothing more than that of a doctor and his patient. I was deluding myself by believing otherwise. No. This...this is better. It's better to know where I stand with him than to cling to false beliefs.

Still...

"He will torture you. He will see to it that you are punished for your transgressions. You will be put to death."

Like the Commander. Why hasn't he turned me in yet? Why hasn't he ordered me to death? Why is he willing, so willing to execute Gaila but hides my presence away from the officers who would eagerly see to it that he'd suffer the same punishment for harboring me? I don't understand it. It's not logical to do this. He's not part of the Resistance, so why?

Captain Pike. I could run to Pike, couldn't I? He's part of the Resistance, isn't he? He knows who I really am, he knows Robau. He—

He terrifies me. His hard cold eyes, his unfriendly sneer. No. If I run to him, he'll hurt me. I can't.

I shake my head, opening my eyes to look at him, ignoring the tears that fall. Haven't I cried enough? "No." I can't run. I can't do anything. I am trapped in this world. This mission. If I run, I will never be able to escape. Robau will track me down. Starfleet will hunt me. I will die at the hands of both. I should have killed myself. Then, maybe, I would have had some control.

"You have slipped once. It was to your benefit that it was with me."

His words anger me, frustrate me. My benefit? It was to my benefit that it was him that found me, that fucked me on that desk all those months ago? No. "Says the man who threatened me if I did not comply. If I did not give you my body to use. You're no different than the rest of the men here."

"As you have stated repeatedly. You despise me and my actions towards you, and yet, you would continue to serve the man who raped you? Who invaded your body while you were injured, unconscious. The same man who violated your trust. You would remain loyal to this man?" He cocks his head to the side. Takes a step towards me.

What does he want me to say? What does he want me to do? I take a step back, keeping the distance between us. "I remain loyal to the cause! Because there has to be something better!"

"Is such a thing worth losing yourself? Is it worth it to put yourself, knowingly, in harm's way for a man who does not care about your wellbeing?"

What is he doing? Why is he saying all these things? It doesn't matter what I want. What I think. What dangers I must face. If the Empire is to change, I must remain here. I must follow Robau's orders. He knows what he's doing. He knows what I must do. I've allowed myself to falter, to focus on myself and the Commander. And look where it led me. "That doesn't matter! None of that matters! All that matters is the cause. And I need to play my part. I need to stop crying and—"

He takes a deep breath and lowers his voice to a whisper. "Nyota, sometimes the prize is not worth the price."

Prize not worth the price. No. he doesn't know what he's saying. I feel tears trailing down my cheeks. I don't want to listen to him anymore. "It has to. It has to because why else would he do it? I was straying from the mission. I was forgetting my job. He needed to remind me. He needed—"

He steps toward me. "Nyota. Why would a man who promises you freedom violate you?"

I shake my head. I don't want to listen to him. I don't want to waver. Not anymore. Doesn't he understand that I know why it happened? Because I wasn't doing my job. I made Robau angry. He needed to let me know who was in charge. Remind me. I'd forgotten; for so long I wandered the halls of this place, reveling in the newfound freedom of pretending to be a man that I'd forgotten I was still a woman. A woman with no rights. A woman who must follow orders. A woman whose place is on her knees. On her back.

How else have I been able to survive? If you upset him, he punishes you. Haven't I witnessed that enough times to know better?

And now this Vulcan is telling me that I'm wrong, that Robau is wrong. I don't want to believe him. Because if I do...if I do—

Then it means that all of this...everything I've fought to achieve, dreamed of...it's all a lie. The Commander doesn't understand. He'll never understand. He can't.

I brush my hands through my hair—it's still tangled; I still need a shower—and my fingers wrap themselves in my dirty tendrils, clinging. I squeeze my eyes shut; I want to shut off the tears. I don't want to cry anymore. "I have to believe him, because—" Because if I don't, I have nothing. I am nothing.

He moves closer to me still. "He is using you, Nyota. Richard Robau is using you."

I open my eyes to look at him. "Just like you. You're using me, too, aren't you?" I sob then my breath catches in my throat. "You've used my body. How can you expect me to believe you? How can you expect me to agree with you?"

"I do not." His eyes drop. "I understand that I have been no different than the men here." He looks at me again. "Like you, I have been molded by this society. Conditioned. I cannot understand the life you have led—and I do not claim to—but I understand what it is to—" He halts his words, tilting his head— "To despise what you have become." He reaches out and cups the side of my face.

I lean into his touch, so desperate I have become.

"I apologize for the distress I have caused you, Nyota."

I close my eyes and fight back a sob. I want to forgive him. It'd make things so much easier, wouldn't it? To just say, 'I forgive you.' But I can't. I don't know if I ever can. Why is he sorry? Does everyone deserve forgiveness?

His hand drops from my face and he takes a step back. "I will retrieve your belongings from your dormitory. And you will remain here in my quarters with me. You will remain here until the end of the term, at which time, I will do what I must to formally secure your Courtesanship. This is the most logical course of action as it is the safest. You will be able to escape persecution and you will be safe."

My body trembles, my teeth chatter. I shake my head. This cannot be happening. Not again.

I will be his. I will be a slave. His slave. This is my nightmare within the nightmare of my life.


	23. The Excommunication of Consuming Horror

"No. No. You can't do that. Please, don't do that." My head shakes, my heart pounds. I step toward him, grabbing the edges of his robes. "Please, don't do that. You promised me. You promised you wouldn't hurt me. I can't. Please, I can't do that again."

The Commander tilts his head and takes my hands, pulling them away from his body. "Do what?"

"I can't go back to that. I can't become that girl again." Tears blur my vision. I blink to clear them. "I can't go back." I can't be a whore again, a prisoner. A slave. I can't. Why can't he understand that? Why can't he see how this is breaking me, how close I already am to tumbling down that giant chasm? How close I am to no return?

"I informed you that I would keep you safe. This is what I must do."

I shake my head. "No. Please, no."

The Commander releases my hands and steps back. "I shall retrieve your belongings from your dormitory and return here."

"No." I should hit him, do something. Run. Escape. He can't keep me here. I don't want to stay here, trapped in these quarters, trapped in his bed. Please, God, don't make me go to his bed.

"Nyota, this is the most logical course of action. It is clear that you are not safe any longer. If you continue as you have, great harm will come to you."

"It already has!" I scream. Can't he understand? I've already been hurt. By my family, the Admiral, Robau, him. Strangers have hurt me. Everyone I know has hurt me. He promised. He promised he wouldn't hurt me.

"You will be safe with me," he continues as though I hadn't interrupted, as though I hadn't screamed at him, cried at him.

"I don't belong to you!" My lungs ache, burn.

He seizes me by my arms—my hands grab his forearms, my eyes widen—and forces me backwards into the wall. I gasp, arching my back, the collision stinging my flesh.

"Why do you keep hurting me?" I whisper, my gaze on his chest, tears falling. "You ask me why I am willing to remain loyal to a man who promised me freedom when you're taking it away from me."

His hands snap away from me; his mask falls across his face. "You will remain here until I return. This is the most logical course of action." He steps back.

I don't move and he retreats to his bedroom. A few minutes later, he returns, dressed in his uniform. He speaks to me, says something—I don't know what, I didn't listen to him, didn't care—and leaves.

And I'm trapped here. Trapped. The Commander left me against the wall. He's gone. Left for my dorm room. To get my things.

It's not safe for me to be here. I don't belong here. My skills would be an invaluable addition to Starfleet. That's what he said. Told me that fateful night when our paths became so intrinsically linked. So inescapable. I can't escape him. I realize that now. He's part of my path. And I am his. We're two fucked up people in a fucked up world. Neither of us wants to be here, but here we are. Here we are, unable to escape, unable to face it. Cowardly. Pathetic. This is us.

I want to be brave.

And here's where we'll always be. Dancing around each other. Saying one thing and doing another. Promising one thing and reneging on it as soon as we—I never promised him anything. I don't owe him anything.

He owes me.

Instead, he'll own me.

A loud gasp escapes my lips. A choking sob.

He left me here on this floor, with my back against the wall. He left me alone. Last time I was alone here, he attacked me, nearly raped me. I won't be moving from this spot. I won't get up and I won't go through that door I can see across the room and down the tiny hallway. I won't run away.

First, I have nowhere to go. Second, I don't want to anger the Commander again.

I'm his, you know. That's what he decided. I will be his. Legally. Forever.

Why? Why is he doing this?

I will be his and there is nothing I can do about it.

Do I want to be his?

No. God, no.

I have a job to do, you know. I was sent here to do a job. And I haven't been doing it. I've been failing miserably and that's why Robau had to correct me. That's why he held me down and did those things. I've been a very bad girl.

A tear falls. I wrap my arms around my legs, pulling them to my chest, resting my forehead against my knees. I sniffle, try to fight off those horrid tears.

No. Been through this. Not my fault. I know that. I realize that in the intelligent part of my brain. I know it's not my fault. The fault lies with Robau. He did this. He hurt me.

I know. God, don't I know.

It still hurts. I still can't decide if I want to die.

How can I go to him? Work for him?

But...how can I not?

Did you know that, when I was a child, I probably would have thought that the Commander was attractive? Appealing. Mysterious. I would have been drawn to him. In my naivety, I probably would have sat down at my little desk in my room and wrote out the plans for our wedding. And what a magnificent wedding it would have been. I wouldn't have cared about his alienness. His unforgiving nature. The wedding would have been perfect. Flowers. Flowers everywhere. Lilies. Chrysanthemums. No roses. Roses are so cliché. They wouldn't do for such a mysterious, alluring man. We would have—

God, what the fuck am I doing? Thinking about the wedding my idiotic child self would have imagined had she met the Commander before the hell of my life became? It wouldn't have mattered, because he would have treated me exactly as he does now. I would end up hating him still.

I'm a mess. Such a mess. When I should be plotting my escape, when I should be preparing my plan for Robau, I'm fantasizing about some stupid dream that didn't happen and would never happen. That I shouldn't even be entertaining. It shouldn't happen because he has hurt me.

I squeeze my eyes shut. A couple more tears escape.

I need to stop this.

I need to get to work. The Rebellion needs me. If we're going to change anything, I need to pull myself together and DO something.

Like whatever I do will change anything...

He still wants you, you know, and if he wants you, he's going to have you. Gaila's words. Her final words to me. She wasn't wrong. That's the thing about Gaila, she was rarely wrong. I miss her. I miss her smile and her laughter. How effervescent she was despite the hell of this world. I miss our times together, when she pulled me onto the bed, draped her body over mine and—

She warned me. I realize that now. She knew that Robau wanted me, wanted to fuck me. Make me his. He'd always wanted to make me his. She was threatened by it. Scared. Scared for herself. Because if he had me, then he didn't need her. But, I'd like to think that she was scared for me, as well. That's why she said that, right? Why she warned me about him.

And it's so confusing. Robau. Pike. Spock. The three men who can either help me or destroy me.

Robau. I've been thinking so much about him. Too much. I don't think I can do it anymore. And I still don't understand Pike's involvement. I don't trust him. I don't.

I just want my freedom.

That's all I want.

It should be so simple to achieve, to gain. I should just be able to get up, get on my feet and head to that door. And escape out the door to my freedom. I should be able to do that. I shouldn't have to worry about what's on the other side, who's on the other side. What the men would do to me if I were to leave.

Because I am truly stuck in this place. I have no disguise. My wig is missing—how did I not notice? When did I lose it?—my linen cloth was abandoned at the whorehouse.

I can't walk out that door. I can't escape. I look around the room. There's a heavy weight settling in my chest. I can't escape. I can't. I can't escape this suffocation and I can't escape him.

I can't escape because I can't hide. I will be his because I can't hide. I can't disappear into the sea of red uniforms, becoming another nondescript face in the crowd of cruel uncaring men.

No.

I stand, bracing myself against the wall, pulling myself to my feet. I tuck the robes around my body, crossing my arms. I can't stay here. But I can't go out there.

I can't let the Commander win. I can't allow him to control my future, my destiny. I can't fall for that again. I've done it once with Robau and look what happened. He betrayed me. He hurt me.

I move to the Commander's desk. I will not fall for it again. I will not allow him to control me. He's the Commander of Special Forces. He controls them; he controls the fate of people's lives. There are those would wish death upon him. He must have a weapon here. He must have some way to protect himself.

Why did I leave my blade in my dormitory?

I can be ingenious if I want to be. I've told myself that before. It's been so many years since I've faced this fear. This fear of a man owning me, making decisions about my body, my life. I killed the Admiral with a crude shank I made with my bare hands. I did that. I felt the life drain out of his body, felt the hot blood seep from his wounds onto me when he collapsed. I did that once. I had—I have no regrets about it. I was protecting myself.

I can do it again.

The desk is locked. Of course, it is. After what I did the last time, I doubt the Commander was willing to take another risk.

Robau attacked me, betrayed me. I will not let this happen to me again.

I look around the room. I will not allow my fear, my anxiety run me. Not this time. I will not allow him to own me. My feet carry me to the kitchen. Where the knives are.

Of course.

I open a drawer, seize a long sharp knife. Smooth black handle. It feels comforting in my hand. I grip it, the knuckles on my hand whitening.

The Commander is lax in his judgment. He locked his desk. But he forgot the kitchen.

No. Not any longer.

Not again.

* * *

Noises outside the apartment. Quiet sounds. Conversations.

I gasp, spinning, pressing my back against the counter. The blade trembles in my hand and my grip tightens. I step towards the door. How close can I get? I reach my empty hand out, graze my fingertips across the cold harsh metal. I lean in, pressing my ear against the door.

"Where the fuck have you been?" An angry voice booming, echoing through the walls into the room.

I jump. I shake.

Captain Pike.

There's quiet reply. I press my ear against the door again; it's thicker than the door leading to the Commander's bedroom, where I last overheard their conversation. I have to strain to hear.

"…took a personal leave of absence." The Commander's calm voice is unwavering. Unconcerned.

Pike's voice booms. "No shit, Spock. You didn't tell anyone you were gone." Slam. Against the door. His fist.

I jump again.

"That is incorrect, sir. I informed those that needed to know." I admire the Commander's ability to remain calm when the Captain is irate.

"And I wasn't one of them?"

"As you are not my direct superior at this juncture, that is correct, sir." His voice is closer. He's moved towards the door.

I take a small step back.

"Don't be cute with me, Commander." Pike voice still resonates through the door. Still clear. Still angry.

"I apologize, sir. I was unaware I was being—" He is silent. "—Cute. That was not my intention."

"You had a visitor while you were away." Pike's voice softens.

I gasp. I couldn't help it. He is about to mention me, isn't he? Mention our encounter that occurred in the Commander's kitchen. He won't mention his connection to Robau. No. Not that. Suicide, that would be. But what will he say?

The Commander does not say anything.

"A little cadet. I could have sworn he looked familiar, though. And not just because you've tutored him before. Like I'd seen him around your place before. Though he didn't look the same. Dressed differently."

My heart races. Echoes in my ears, the _whoosh-whoosh_ of my blood careening through my veins. My breath uneven, harsh. Pants.

"I do not understand." Of course, he doesn't.

"Where's your whore that you've been keeping from me?" Me. He wants to know about me. He already knows, but he wants to know if the Commander knows. Would he be punished if it's revealed that he's got me locked up in his quarters? Or rewarded? Will he tell the Captain? Or remain silent, like he told me he would?

"She is not your concern."

The Captain's voice grows closer. I imagine him standing close to the Commander, staring into his cold harsh eyes. "You see, Spock, that's where you're wrong. There's been talk around the Starfleet Command. You've gone soft."

"Soft?" He probably tilts his head, brow furrowed. The closest sign of emotion he allows to grace his face freely.

Pike sighs. "I feel like we've had this conversation before, like we **keep** having this conversation. You're growing weak. They're still questioning your loyalty, your ability to do your job. You suddenly disappear with no warning. Then, let's not forget that whore of yours and that Cadet. You've never been one to keep a woman from your friends without sharing, much less tutor a mindless cadet. Something's changing within you, Commander, and I'm not sure it's a good thing."

A moment of silence. "I am sorry you feel that way, sir. But it is none of your concern. I requested a leave of absence because it was needed. And I have returned. I am fully capable of performing my duties to Starfleet and the Empire. And in any case, Captain, Cadet Uhura has withdrawn from the Academy, so the cadet's presence will no longer be a concern for you."

Pike's short reply—"Oh?"—tells me what I need to know. He's surprised. He'll tell Robau, won't he? Tell him that their little spy ran away. Robau will punish me again. If he catches me. My hand clenches around the knife.

"Yes."

"And that whore of yours? Where is she?" The whore and the cadet that are one and the same. That he knows.

"Good evening…Chris. It is late. I must return to my quarters and rest. I shall speak with you tomorrow morning."

"We're not through with this conversation, Commander."

"Of course, sir."

* * *

The door hisses, the lock unlatches.

I jump away, retreating into the shadows of the foyer. My breath comes out in pants. My hands shake, clammy with my fear, my nervousness. I can't forget my fear. He steered Pike away from my scent once more, but I cannot let that sway me, make me question my plans. He wants to imprison me, make me his. I can't. Not again. Not after the Admiral. After Robau. No more.

The door opens and the Commander enters, placing a bag—a bag that contains my belongings, my meager life, no doubt; he did it, really did it and it's done—by the door. "Nyota?"

The door closes behind him.

I launch. Pressing him against the cold metal of the door, placing the blade on his neck. My entire body trembles, shakes. If I screw this up, if I falter and let him gain the upper hand, I could be punished for this. He could hurt me. Break me.

His hand reaches out, grazes my skin.

"Don't touch me!" I exclaim, pressing my weight against his body, leaning into my outstretched arms. He could push me away if he wants. He could snap his hand back, send it flying through the air, hit me. I wouldn't be able to stop him. He's far too strong for me, Vulcan blood pulses through his veins.

His hand drops to his side. He looks at me, his eyes glinting in the darkening foyer. The sun sets behind us, its fading light casting harsh shapes against his face. The setting sun? Has the day passed me by already? Did I sleep through it? How could I have done that? How could I have not noticed?

He tilts his head. "I am attempting to help you, Nyota."

I shake my head. "By imprisoning me? By making me your slave? No! I have a mission to complete. You can't keep me here." I press the blade against his neck. Tiny green emeralds bloom across the sharp metal. He can't. I cannot allow him.

He inhales. "I have no desire to enslave you. I am concerned for your safety. And your health."

I scoff, a snort escaping. Since when? Where did he start caring about my safety and health? Was it between fucks? After I sucked his cock the first time? He left me here. If he really cared about me, why did he do that? I still don't know. I still don't understand. He left me here and I suffered. I wanted to die.

"You are psychologically damaged. If you are to leave now, you will be unable to cope."

"What would you know?" My fingers clench around the knife's handle, I press the blade further into his neck. More emeralds. He doesn't flinch. Doesn't react.

"You have not eaten for four days. Three of those days you contemplated suicide."

I gasp. Tears. Not again. Those words, recited with such blandness, such banality. How can I, for one minute, believe he cares? "What—how?"

"Traces of your turmoil leaked during the mind meld."

I shake my head. "No. You said you wouldn't look if I didn't say you could." He lied. He looked into my mind. I didn't want him to.

"I did not seek the information deviously, Nyota. Your mind has been damaged. You unknowingly allowed this information to be broadcasted to me." The Commander brings his hand to rest upon mine pressing the knife into his neck—Vulcans can die from an injury to the jugular, right?—his fingers wrap around mine. He pulls the blade away. "I apologize for the intrusion."

I watch the tiny emeralds trail down his neck, stretching, forming rivulets. So different from the bright red, the large pools from the—Was I really going to—"I killed him."

He tilts his head. "Nyota?"

My eyes fall. The fabric of his uniform is clean. Must have cleaned it afterwards. After he killed her, after he returned. Wonder when he did that. "I didn't want him. I didn't want—he didn't care." I step away from him, the knife falls from my hand. It bounces on the ground, a loud clatter. "I didn't want him. I wanted him dead. He bled. He bled so much and I didn't care."

"To whom are you referring, Nyota? The man who…attacked you?"

Funny how he can't say that word either. That horrible, horrible word. Why doesn't he say it? Because he feels guilty? He's guilty of it, too, you know. He's raped women, I saw it. In his mind, I saw it—what happened with that Chapel girl? What did he do to her? I don't want to know—He almost did it with me. Does he not want to admit that he is just as bad, just as horrible as Robau? But who's worse? The Commander or Robau? I've always known there was a danger with Commander Spock. Robau was supposed to be my savior, my protector. I guess that makes him worse?

Or is the Commander refraining from using that word because he still doesn't see it as such. There's no law against it, after all. The man who attacked me. Yeah, according to the law, he was well within his rights.

I shake my head. "The one from before. The one who took me away from home." I bring my hands up to my face. "I didn't even know his name."

"Nyota—"

"He was a Starfleet officer. I killed him. I ran away. You should lock me up. So, why don't you?" I pace. "I wonder if anyone here remembers that man. I'm sure there's been officers who were invited to his parties. He liked parties. I'm sure some of them are still here. They might like to join you. Why would you—"

The Commander steps toward me, hand outstretched. "Nyota, please, stop speaking." He approaches me.

I let him, tears blurring my vision. "Please, don't trap me here."

He reaches for my face, wiping the tears from my cheeks. "I will not. However, I wish to help you. Allow me to help you repair the damage to your mind. I can teach you techniques to employ to shield your mind from detrimental harm. If you allow me to do so."

I nod, my eyes closing, my hand reaching up to grab his. I should question his motives, ask him why he's suddenly so keen on actually helping me, not under some guise of fucking me. I should ask. That's what any sane, rational person would do, right? A person who wouldn't for a single second entertain this crazy notion that this Vulcan in front of her had a change of heart. I should question it and maybe if this was happening years ago, when I first came here, before the hell, I would have. But now, I just…I just want it all to end. I don't care anymore about this mission. I don't think it will change things. I don't think Robau has any intention of changing things for the better. I still don't know his true intentions. But I don't care. I just want to get away. Away from it all.

"Please, help me."


	24. The Gentle Flutter of Gossamer Wings

The water pours from the faucet. A loud splashing sound in the sink. I watch, arms wrapped around my body, fingers clutching the soft material of the robe. The Commander dips a washcloth under the stream, wets it, and brings it to his neck. He wipes away the green blood, revealing the small cut on his throat. The cut I gave him. Is he angry about that? Will he come at me, punish me for it? He doesn't say anything when he pulls it away and looks at the glistening blood staining the white cloth.

The kitchen lights are harsh, glaring. Bouncing off the clean shining surfaces of the counters, washing out everything. The blood on the rag shines in those lights, his skin looks sallow. I hate fluorescent lighting. It makes everything so harsh. So ugly. Appropriate, I suppose. Maybe it's not making things look harsh and ugly. Maybe it's revealing how the world really is. Ugly. Harsh. What is there in this world that isn't?

I wonder what would happen if our positions were reversed. If I was the one in control, the Starfleet officer heading the Special Forces. If he was the one struggling to find some reason to cling to sanity—would it be easier to just give in, give up? Would it be easier to be one of those broken girls Kirk seems to prefer?—to find freedom in a universe that doesn't want him to have any, that thinks he's less than the rest merely because he was born a certain way, that believes his purpose is to assuage the sexual needs of the women. Would I help him? If he begged me, would I? Would I do it only for some unnamed ulterior motive? Would I force him into my bed? Would I be able to keep him there? And if I did, I'd be just as despicable as he. What would happen if I did choose to help him? To me?

Oh, what does it matter? There's no point in wondering about it. Because it's not going to happen. The universe is not going to suddenly change and we're not suddenly going to be in different places, in different lives. I wouldn't wish my life on anyone anyway, not even him.

It doesn't work like that. We're forced to play the cards we're dealt. No changes. No swaps.

But…how much is he risking by helping me? Is he really helping me? And why would he do it? What's the punishment for aiding and abetting a criminal?

The Commander drops the rag in the sink and it lands with a loud splat; I jump. He turns to look at me. The cut on his neck has stopped bleeding. "You must eat. I will prepare something."

I nod. He's right. I need to eat. Can't forget to do that.

* * *

 _I shall teach you techniques my grandmother taught me. Techniques designed to clear one's mind, to control one's emotions. To find balance._

Okay. But, how will that help me? How will it help me forget the feeling of Robau? How will it help me forget what's been done to me? Why can't I simply forget?

The tiny flame dances in front of my eyes. I follow it, unblinking.

Across from the flickering flame, he sits, legs crossed, on the floor. "Allow your mind to clear."

I exhale. I want to.

How is that going to help me? He tells me it will help but he doesn't tell me how. How can clearing your mind help?

The anger in Robau's eyes, the dangerous glint.

Did you rape me, I ask. I can't not know. But I do know. I'm terrified of his answer. Because it will make it real. It's already real. Silence reigns and I fear what's going through his mind. Robau sighs, releasing a long breath. Then he shakes his head.

No. That is a lie.

He hovers above me. I cry. Please, please, stop. He doesn't. He doesn't care. He. A faceless man. No eyes. Not mouth. Nothing. He could be anyone. Robau. The Admiral. There's been so many. This is my life.

The men, faceless still, grip my hips, bruising, and thrust into me. So many. So many I can't see, I can't remember. I don't understand it. It was, it is the way of the world, of the Empire. This is my lot in life. I was not chosen as a Wife. I was not allowed to love. Love is meaningless. Love is pointless.

Love doesn't exist.

I say nothing; I do not cry out. I do nothing when his thrusts become harder and harder. Is good for you, too? I want to scream. No! My mouth opens, the words die on my lips. My flesh tears and gives under the cruelty. I don't fight it, because I can't. I am left in that alley—how many alleys have I seen the grungy dark side of?—left in that room, on that bed, in a pool of my tears, and blood and their semen, leaking out of me and down my legs.

I did what was necessary to remind you that you are not the one in charge. You seem to have forgotten, caught up in your little affair with that Vulcan, he says.

Clear your mind. I'm trying.

Janice returns to us, blood dripping down her legs, tears staining her face. How did I not notice? How did I push it away? How did I forget?

A young girl, running along the path, laughing, giggling. Catches butterflies. Me. It's me. I remember that day. Innocence ripped away. Tears fall from closed eyes, screams tumble from open lips. Parents watch, unconcerned, uncaring.

This is your fault. I wanted a son.

I wish I was their son.

The Commander's hand grazes my shoulder, he grips my hips, wraps his arms around me. My back to his chest. Slips inside. I cry out. I shudder and he moves inside me. I spin around and slash the knife. It cuts. It digs. He stumbles back, his face no longer than blank mask. Horror. Shock. Anger. I jump at him, the knife stabs. He falls. Dead.

No. Not real. Not memories, but not real, either.

Gaila got what she deserved. You're hurting me. Perhaps that is something that I should have done a long time ago. I have been kind to you. I have been patient. I have been careful not to harm you. Because I thought this was what you needed.

I squeeze my eyes closed, the familiar burn of tears. Force a heavy sigh and look at the flame again. Clear my mind. Clear my mind.

"You must not allow your thoughts to consume you." His voice pierces the despair. His voice silences the men, the memories. Slices through them.

"H-how?" How can they not consume me? They are my life. They are this Empire. My thoughts are governed by this world and by these experiences. My eyes open and the Commander sits before me, blurry.

He tilts his head. "You must remember that you are a survivor, Nyota. When most women in your position have given up, have broken, you have fought. You are strong. I do not doubt that you will prevail."

Strong. I don't feel strong. I feel weak. I just want to curl up in a ball against the corner of the wall and sob. I just want to forget everything. How is that strong?

"I don't know if I can do this." I sniffle. I don't care that tears blur my vision, run down my face. He's seen them. Countless times. He's been the cause of them.

He reaches across the space between us and wraps his hands around my smaller ones. "You can. What memory is your most peaceful? Your happiest?"

Happiest? Have I ever—I take a deep breath. When have I been happy? Surely, I've been happy? It was a long time ago. It was before all of this—when I was stupid, naive. When have I been happy? I close my eyes.

"Nyota, tell me." He says my name so gently, quietly. Has he always said it that way? Am I just tired, exhausted?

"I—it was in Africa."

The _asenoi_ is moved; I hear it scrape across the coffee table, scooting out of the way. He moves closer, his heat radiates. One hand leaves mine, cups my face. "Concentrate on that moment, Nyota. Allow it to consume you."

Why? What's the point? It's in the past. When I was a child. Ignorant. Stupid. A stupid girl that planned her future wedding that would never happen. A stupid girl who believed her parents even when she saw something that told her different.

"You are resisting."

I look at him. How can I not? The memory is pointless. It won't change things here. It won't take me away. I'll still be in this place when I open my eyes. "I can't."

The Commander's grip on my hand tightens. "You can." His gaze is intense, unwavering.

I close my eyes, leaving the room behind. I close my eyes to escape his. Focus. Focus on the memory. It's such a simple moment. A meaningless moment. I close my eyes and focus.

A gentle breeze. The leaves above flutter, rumble and undulate like waves crashing on the rocks of a seashore. Louder. Softer. A bird chirps. I'm in the forest near my home. I'm a child. I take a deep breath, breathing in the clean air, the warm moist air of the forest.

Another breeze blows through the trees. I'm alone. I ran from my home, escaping into the forest, scared and nervous. They were arguing. Or more, he was ordering. She was complying. I didn't understand it. I heard her scream. I didn't like it. So I ran.

Escaping here, to the forest.

I came to this place before. When I was young, I always escaped here. My secret hideaway. A place of peace and happiness, it soon became a safe haven from the sounds in the house.

The butterflies flutter, dance around my feet. A wave of blue and yellow wings undulating against the forest floor.

"The _Euphaedra janetta_. It is a most aesthetically pleasing specimen."

I gasp and turn around. He's here, walking towards me. "What—"

"This is your most peaceful moment? I still sense fear. Apprehension." He stops before me, clasping his hands behind his back.

"I—I don't want you here." I don't. His presence tarnishes this place. Reminds me of what I want to escape.

He says nothing. Tilts his head.

I scoff. Of course. I spin around, move across the forest floor, mindful of the butterflies fluttering about. There's a fallen tree limb, moss growing on it. I sit down, balancing. I stare at the ground, watching the butterflies. They stay low to the forest floor, seeking fallen fruit, one another.

The tree limb shifts. The Commander settles against it next to me. "Please, inform me, Nyota. Why do you seek this place as your happiest memory?"

I shrug. I don't know. I don't know why this place is so important to me. Nothing happened here. I just escaped from my house and ran here. I was punished for it when I returned. Punished for running away and not telling them. Refuge.

A butterfly flies near us. The Commander reaches out and it lands on his outstretched hand. "The butterfly is a most fascinating species of insect, capable of dramatic physical changes in approximately one Terran month. No such creature exists on Vulcan. I find it intriguing how humans place such admiration in the physical beauty of this insect and abhor the rest." The butterfly flies away, rejoining its brethren.

He's right. The butterfly is lauded for its beauty. The rest of the insects are shunned. But we only admire the butterfly after its final transformation. We abhor the caterpillar, lament the destroyed plants it leaves in its wake. I admire the butterfly. It accepts its transformation without question, it accepts its reality. It can't control the changes that it undergoes. It can't escape them.

I wish I had the strength of a butterfly. To accept reality, to accept that what happens, happen. To stop searching for a way to change things. I wouldn't be so precariously perched on the edge of this cliff—this cliff to insanity—if I did.

"Is that really what you wish, Nyota? To lack the ability to change your life?" His words cut through the peaceful silence. He knows my thoughts, trapped in here with me.

"Why wouldn't it be?"

"I must admit, I expected different."

"What are you talking about?"

"A butterfly is a creature bereft of affection, is it not? It knows not its mother, must survive independently and without aid. It is uncaring."

Tears fall. Isn't that exactly what I want? What good has affection given me? The butterfly can fly away.

"You cared for the Orion, did you not?"

"Her name was Gaila, you bastard." I stand, moving away from him. I don't heed the butterflies at my feet. I step upon them. Uncaring. How dare he speak her name.

"I apologize."

But he's right. I cared for her. I loved her. And look where it got me. And Robau—

"You cared for the man who hurt you."

I spun around to face him. "No. I didn't care for him. I cared about what he stood for." I never wanted him. I never wanted his touch. He promised me I wouldn't have to do that again. He promised— "Why are we here? How is this place supposed to help?" I look at him. I need an answer.

The Commander takes a deep breath. "This location is of your choosing. We are here because it is important that you remember that your life has not been completely encompassed by the horrors you've experienced. If you are to find peace within yourself, then you must learn, you must remember that such peace still exists. You have to be willing to seek it. Only then will you be successful. Only then will you be like the butterfly: able to resurrect. Find your missing strength."

"And what about you? Do you have peace?" If he's teaching me, he must.

"I do not, I must admit. However, I…wish to seek it with you. Perhaps we could help one another." He reaches out for the butterflies. One rests on his hand. "The insect is a fragile creature, easily torn apart by a heavy rain, and yet, it is able to withstand such dramatic physical transformation as it morphs from larva to butterfly. Strong, yet gentle."

I want to believe him. I want to believe I can escape this mental torment. Resurrect. Carefree.

He tilts his head. "It is interesting, is it not, how varied the metaphors a mere winged insect can possess?"

* * *

The butterflies fade. The forest dissipates. My dream ends. I keep my eyes closed; I don't want to wake up just yet. A hand smooths my hair back, fingers entangle themselves in my curls.

The hand draws away; I seize it in mine, bringing it close.

I fall back to sleep.

 _Dakh pthak. Nam-tor ri ret na'fan-kitok fa tu dakh pthak_. Words whispered in the silence.

.

The next morning, I find something out of place in the Commander's apartment. A shadow box perched on the coffee table, next to the fire pot. Inside it, the _Janetta Forester_. Its brilliant blue and yellow wings spread out, striking against the white background. Don't forget.

.

 _Cast out fear. There is no room for anything else until you cast out fear._

* * *

He takes my hands in his. We watch the flame dance across the top of the delicate fire pot, wrapping around the wick, licking the edges. I concentrate on that tiny fire. It's calming.

I seek that calmness inside me. I retreat to the forest, where the butterflies flutter across the green-carpeted forest floor.

It is there, that I find peace.

* * *

Birds chirp. Wings flutter. A door slides open.

I open my eyes, abandoning the forest, returning to the stark darkness of the room.

Down the hall, the Commander stands, uniform wrinkled, splattered with a color I can only assume is the blood of an alien. His face, ashen and worn.

"There's a new one out, isn't there?" My voice loud, piercing the silence. A new swaying body outside the Wall. I wonder who it is.

He doesn't answer me. Just retreats to the bathroom. I hear him mutter something about following orders. I don't stop him. I don't ask him to repeat it.

I drop my gaze to the fire pot. Peace still alludes him. It beckons to me.

Peace still alludes him, despite his efforts to seek it.

* * *

He pulls his hands from mine. His emotions slip: a scowl mires his face. He stands, whispers an apology and escapes to the bedroom.

When I join him later, he is sleeping. A restless sleep.

* * *

I have found myself grateful for the space the Commander has given me. Two weeks have passed. I have been in these quarters, hidden, tucked away from prying eyes.

I wonder what words have spread about Benjamin Uhura, about how he couldn't handle the stress, couldn't stand up to the pressure. The men of the Academy are probably having a great laugh at his expense.

I have found that I do not mind. I do not care.

Robau is slowly becoming a distant memory. His anger, his unwanted touch, his disgusting kiss. They are slowly fading away. I'm glad for that.

"You are making considerable progress." The Commander sits in front of me, across the table, food untouched. Gray circles below his eyes. Gaunt cheeks. He is not doing fine. He is still not making progress. But he won't talk to me. He won't mention it.

* * *

My communicator beeps. I open my bag. Pull it out. I look at it and freeze. Richard Robau's name is displayed on the outer screen, back lit by a soft blue color. I could answer. I **should** answer. It's been weeks—how many weeks? How could I forget?—since I last saw him. I haven't been doing my job.

I don't care.

Spock approaches me from behind. "Nyota?"

The communicator beeps again. Robau again. My hands shake. I should answer it. If I don't…if I ignore him—

I'll be on my own. He'll abandon all means of protecting me. Not that he has.

I press 'ignore' and turn off the device before shoving it into the bottom of my bag.

I don't care what he has to say.

.

I glance at the shadow box, at the frozen image of the _Janetta Forester_ within. A creature meant to fly, to be free. Trapped, captured and sealed in the box. I want to break the glass. Set it free. As pointless as that is. It's dead.

I still crave the freedom of the butterfly.


	25. The Prey Ensnared

It's late. The sun has set and I am alone. Alone with the small fire pot and my visions of the forest. The Commander is not here; he was called away to some emergency meeting with Captain Pike.

Something regarding the _I.S.S. Enterprise,_ I think. He didn't tell me and I didn't really ask. I don't care. My time here is limited. The school is almost over and the Commander—he promised; he can't change his mind—will help me get out of here.

I don't know how he plans on that happening. But he promised.

And I have to believe him. I have to believe him because I have no one else I can.

I am most pleased with your progress, he told me. You have grasped the concepts and methods sooner than I had expected.

He's so troubled. So messed up. He still has difficulty sleeping. I've found him awake in the middle of the night. He stares out the window onto the streets, campus below. There's nothing to see, so he must think. I can't get him to tell me what about. After our mind meld, he hasn't been so willing.

I shouldn't be so curious. This is a man, a Vulcan, who has taken advantage of me, who's used my body, fucked me. It was ambiguous, sometimes, I think. Did I give consent? Or not? I couldn't tell you, to be completely honest. I don't remember. I remember wanting it, feeling disgusted at myself. I remember begging him for just a little bit more. He'd always give it. Sometimes more than I wanted. Pushing me higher and higher.

He hasn't touched me since he's come back. Probably for the best. I wasn't in a good place. I'm still trying to crawl my way out of it.

What does it say about me that I miss feeling his touch? That I miss feeling him moving inside me? I shouldn't miss it, right? He didn't give me a choice with the unions. He forced me into them. Like I was his. His property to command, to dominate.

I still want his touch. I want to erase the remnants of the man who touched me last. I don't think the Commander would give it to me, though. He's been different since the meld, regarding me differently. I'm not sure why and I haven't asked.

I wonder what happened to that photograph of him and his mother. It still hasn't returned to his desk. Did he destroy it? Or did someone else? How would he react if I ask?

* * *

A rattling sounds. My eyes snap open. It sounds again. Coming from outside the door.

It can't be the Commander. The door opens automatically upon his arrival. It's not the Commander. But it's somebody. Of course, it's somebody. Somebody on the other side of the door.

My heart pounds in my chest. My stomach clenches. There's someone out there. Who? It's not Spock. And it can't be Captain Pike since he's the one who called the Commander in for the meeting.

The rattling, the clunking becomes insistent.

I look around the quarters, my eyes darting from table to shelf to desk. My vision is hindered by the lack of light—there's only the tiny flame; too much light distracts me—but I can't risk turning the lights on. I—I need a weapon. There are no phasers in the Commander's quarters; except for the one in his locked drawer. I won't risk attempting to break the lock. There's not enough time anyway.

And it'd make too much noise.

There are only the knives in the kitchen. The same ones I used against the Commander all those weeks ago—how many weeks? Only three? It feels so much longer—but I will have to get close. I can't hide in the shadows, attack from the safety of the darkness. I will know his face and he will know mine.

And if I screw up, if he lives, he'll know it was me that did it and he'll kill me. Or report me. And I'll go to the Wall. And I'll hang there, dead, as people spit and desecrate my corpse.

I hold my breath. I can't. I can't—

I want to forget. I don't want to think about it. I just want to close my eyes and return to the forest with the butterflies. They were helping. And now, they were snatched away, seized, torn to shreds—delicate wings caught in a hurricane of fear—by the voice, the knocks on the door.

Another knocking on the door. Followed by whispered words.

Whoever it is, he won't go away.

I retreat for the kitchen, robes fluttering across my legs. I seize a long-bladed knife, just like the one that sliced through the Commander's skin—he should have punished me for that; why didn't he?—and grip it tightly. My heart still pounds, the blood rushes, echoes in my ears.

Holding the knife close, I move towards the door where the noises still sound.

Panting, body shaking, I lean against the door, pressing my ear against the cold metal.

A voice. Muffled through the door, but it's still a voice. He says something that's difficult to understand. I squeeze my eyes shut, press my ear more tightly against the door.

CLUNK! CLUNK!

I gasp, a small scream escapes my lips, and jump back. I clamp a hand around my lips. My presence is known to him. I back away from the door, my legs trembling, my arms shivering.

He knows I'm in here. Whoever is outside the Commander's quarters now knows there is a woman in here. Does he know the Commander is missing? Will he retreat? Or will he double his efforts, desperate to steal her away from the Vulcan? Desperate, determined to r—

I can't.

No. I was making progress, I was healing. I can't let myself fall, tumble back to where I was, to the despair.

Why am I still standing here, just on the other side of the door?

Another loud clank. Some beeps.

The door slides open, revealing the man on the other side.

My eyes widen and my breath catches in my throat. My grip on the knife falters and he grabs me, shoving me backwards. I slam into the wall behind me and my knife slips from my hand, clattering on the ground. I hear it scrape across the floor, away from me. He kicked it.

I'm defenseless. The Commander is not here.

"How—" How did he find me? Why is he here? How did he get in? Who let him in?

He leaned in close, his nose bumping into mine. He leans against his hands, positioning them on both sides of my head. Trapping me. Imprisoning me with his body.

I gasp, pant. My blood feels frozen; my limbs, numb. Three weeks. It's been three weeks.

How?

He smirks. But it's angry, hardness taints it. "Nyota." He leans closer, his mouth moving towards mine, but I jerk my head to the side and he grazes my cheek. He laughs and seizes my chin, forcing me to look at him.

I squeeze my eyes shut. I have to be dreaming. I have to be in the middle of a nightmare. This doesn't make any sense. How is he here? Why?

If I reach inside far enough I can force myself to wake up. This is a nightmare. This isn't happening. This isn't happening.

Where is the Commander?

A meeting with Captain Pike. Pike, who knows my true identity. And now, here's—

Coincidence?

"Nyota. You had me concerned. It's been three weeks since I last saw you. Since I gave you that order. I was beginning to think you were dead when you didn't answer my communications."

I open my eyes, look into his cold ones. My body trembles.

I wanted to die. Did he know that? Did he plan that? Would it please him to know that I had hid in my dorm, clinging to the fading fringes of my sanity? Would he laugh if he knew that I envisioned killing him, stabbing myself?

Where would I be if the Commander had not summoned me that night? I shudder to think.

He narrows his eyes.

His communications. He's—he's right. I haven't answered them. I turned that communicator off and threw it in the bottom of my bag. I forgot about it. I didn't care. I was free of him. He was out of my life. I didn't—I don't—want to follow his orders anymore. They weren't helping anyone.

How—

"How are you here? How did you find me?" My voice shakes, quivering words fall from my lips. I was healing. I was getting better. I was forgetting. Why? Why is he here? I was naive, stupid to think I'd be safe if I just ignored him.

Of course, he could find me. He's the one that told me to return to the Commander, told me to fuck him. Let him own me. He could find the information he needed.

He reaches into the jacket pocket of that fucking impeccable suit of his—it looks expensive, something that one would have to have money to afford—and pulls out his own communicator. He waves it in front of my face. It blocks my view of him. "Now, Nyota, what was it that I taught you? Always keep your communicator turned on and keep it with you always. You seem to have done neither of these."

"Please, leave me alone." Tears burn my eyes but they don't fall. Not yet. I don't want him to see me crying. Not anymore.

Robau returns the communicator to his pocket and seizes me by my shoulders, slamming me against the wall; I cry out, the impact stinging. "You've failed me, Nyota. I gave you simple instructions: get me information on the Emperor."

I honestly forgot. I successfully pushed it from my mind, because when I left that grungy whorehouse room, I had no intentions of returning; I was going to be dead. I don't say anything, though. I just look at him, at his cruel face—how could I have not seen it all this time?—his snarling lips, glaring eyes. His face hovering above mine as he moves against me, in me. My throat clenches—I feel like I might throw up—my heart catches. No. No. It's in the past. It's done. He's not supposed to be here. He's not supposed to be in my life anymore.

I was getting better.

"I was counting on you, Nyota. But you failed me and I was forced to find these things out on my own."

Then why are you here?

"Do you understand the danger I placed myself in obtaining this information, searching for you? I could have been caught; I could have been hanged. Then, where would you be?" He presses his body against mine. "I thought I was clear. I **needed** you on this, Nyota."

My fingers dig into his shoulders. I shove him away. "Don't touch me!"

He laughs. Takes a small step back. "Feisty." He leers, his eyes following my legs upwards, settling on some areas longer than others—how could I have missed this? Was I so blinded by his promises, empty promises that I didn't let myself see?—and he steps forward again, grabbing my hair. I cry out and he forces me backwards again. My head slams against the wall. I flinch.

"I must say." He leans in, his breath hot against my face. "You certainly look better than last time. I see the Commander knows how to treat his whore well. I guess I can understand your loyalty."

My leg rams upwards, but he anticipates my move and sidesteps. "Fuck you," I say, my lip curling upwards, my eyes narrowing.

"I already have."

I cry out, tears stinging my eyes, and my hands lash toward his face, his eyes. I want to scratch him. Hurt him. I aim for his eyes. He seizes my wrists and pins them above my head, squeezing, clenching. I yelp.

He rests his forehead against mine. "Nyota. How easily you have forgotten. How easily you have forgotten your purpose here."

I don't speak. I don't know what to say. My heart threatens to burst from my chest. My breaths come in huge uneven gasps. I want to close my eyes and when I open them, I want him gone. I will be leaving this place soon. Spock said I would. I have to believe him.

"Don't you want the Empire to fall? Don't you want the Empire to change? The Commander to pay for what they've done?" He skirts his hands across my body; I flinch, pull away. His hands pull the robe lose; my chest is almost completely exposed to him. "You help me with this and you can have your freedom. You won't have to do anything you don't want to do anymore."

I brace myself against him and shove. He stumbles back then reels forward and hits me; my head jerks to the side and I cry out. He grabs my head, cups both hands around my cheeks and brings his body even closer to mine, pressing me against the wall. I gasp, pant. I can't find purchase to get him away from me. What is he going to do to me?

"You will listen to me. You will do what I tell you. You haven't forgotten Gaila, have you? Do you want to end up like her? Strewn up like a piece of meat? Dead?"

My eyes close and I can't escape the memory of seeing her body hanging, swaying. I can't escape the Commander's memories, her desperate cries on his ears, my ears. Robau deceived her, as well. He turned her in. He let them kill her because she wore out her usefulness, because she disobeyed him. I shake my head, my lips quivering. No. No. I don't want to die. I want to live. I want to be free. "No. Please, no." I just want him to stop hurting me. "I'll—I'll do it."

He smiles, runs a hand through my hair and cups my cheek. "There you go, Nyota. You've just made the right decision."

I turn my face away, looking at the door, and he rests his forehead against my temple, pressing kisses against my cheek. I stare at the door. It mocks me. Why hasn't the Commander returned? Why hasn't he entered through the door and expelled the danger from this place?

Robau steps away, dropping his hands from my body—I release a long sigh, clutching the robes close, concealing the flesh he touched—and crosses his arms. "You have ten minutes to get ready."

I push away from the wall and stumble to the bathroom, my legs uncooperative, still stiff.

Once inside the bathroom, away from him, I allow myself a moment to release the tears, to cry. I bite my fist, staunching the noise. I don't want him to hear. I don't want him to come in.

I was getting better.

I grab the only clothing I can find: my wrinkled cadet uniform. I haven't worn it since that night three weeks ago when the Commander returned. It has lain, forgotten, in a heap on the floor underneath the sink. Neither of us has touched it. Neither of us has removed it. Thrown it away. I don't know why.

Untying the sash, I drop the robe from my shoulders and it tumbles to the floor. And I'm left wearing only my underwear. I pull the disgusting pants on. They haven't been washed—they still bear traces of—I gag, choking down bile. The top is easier to bear, but I no longer have my linen cloth—I don't even have my wig anymore—so my breasts are not hidden beneath it. I am unable to mask my feminine body, no matter how feebly I was. I suppose it doesn't really matter, though. Because I won't be alone.

I want to stay in here. I want to stay here until the Commander arrives. But I don't know when that'll be. I don't know when Robau will decide he's had enough waiting and burst through. He may hurt me if he gets mad. I can't risk it.

So, I leave the safety of the bathroom.

Robau scowls when he sees my ill-fitting uniform. But he doesn't say anything about it. He seizes my arm and shoves me toward the door.

Maybe when the door slides open the Commander will be there. Maybe he'll see me with Robau and he'll attack him. Maybe I'll get away.

The door slides open upon our approach.

The Commander isn't on the other side of it.


	26. The Falling Shadow Across the Floor

Robau drags me from the Commander's apartment. Down the corridor, descend in the turbolift—the few men we see ignore us—and out the lobby. There's a taxi there waiting. Our ride. I am shoved into the backseat and Robau joins me.

He orders the driver to a hotel. Deep in the middle of downtown San Francisco. Some distance away from the Academy—how am I going to get back?—it stands proud and tall against the skyline. Ritzy. Five-star. A place befitting the respected, the wealthy men of the Empire.

We enter the lobby. I keep my head down. How easily I return to the ways of a whore. Head down. Don't look. Don't speak. Don't do anything unless you're told. Then, do it without question, without hesitation. If I do this, if I do everything he wants me to do, I may get out of here alive. I may be able to put him in the past, move away from him. Return to the Commander and—

And what? Count the days until he files the correct paperwork to make me his? Hang on to the hope that he will still release me when it's safe?

"Is ol' Archer in?" Robau asks. A casual question regarding the Emperor. Where are the armed guards? The security detail? How can Robau expect to get us in without rousing suspicion?

"Good evening, Richard. Brought the Emperor a present?"

I glance up, glance down. We're standing in front of the concierge. A tall man. Debonair.

"Only the best for our esteemed Emperor." Robau seizes my arm, thrusts me forward.

I freeze in front of the concierge.

He smiles. Leers. "What's with the uniform?"

"The Emperor's special request."

The man laughs. "Very well. He's in the penthouse. Top floor. I'll contact him. Let him know you're headed up."

"Thank you."

We head for the turbolift.

.

The door slides close. My heart pounds, my breath rushes. Something cold, metallic is pressed into my hands. I glance down.

A knife.

"I trust you know how to use that." Robau doesn't look at me. He stares at the increasing numbers above the door. "You will have one hour after I leave. Afterwards, I'll return. And, if you've succeeded—"

"You'll help me escape?" That was the original plan. Does it still hold true? Or is he too angry at me, too disappointed? Would he rather I fall to the wolves, the wolves that will surely come the moment they hear their leader has been assassinated—

Can I do this? Can I kill a man who has done nothing directly to me? But...

He has, hasn't he? He's the one who allows the laws to continue to exist. He's the one who's passed some of them. So, he is responsible for some of my life.

I slip the knife into the back of my waistband. As loose as the uniform is, the blade's shape cannot be seen under the red fabric. He'll never see it coming. Until it's too late.

The turbolift slows. The doors open.

A short corridor leads to a door. We move toward it, Robau's hand grasping my shoulder. He seems to worry I'm going to run. But where would I run? I don't know where to go.

The door to the penthouse opens. And the Emperor, dressed in delicate, elegant silk pajamas, steps out. He laughs. "Richard. Been a while."

Robau steps forward. Hugs him. "Too long."

My eyes widen. Robau is friendly with the Emperor? Why does he want to kill him?

"I wasn't sure you were even in town. Until your people called me."

"Yeah. I'm in town for the graduation ceremony at Starfleet—"

Graduation ceremony. It was supposed to be my graduation. But no longer. I am no longer a student. I wonder if anyone even noticed when Benjamin Uhura ceased going to classes. I wonder if anyone even cared.

"Where's your security? I gotta say, I'm surprised it was so...lacking."

The Emperor laughs. "I sent them down to the bar for the evening. I have plans I don't want them interrupting."

I stare at his silk-clad legs. A small pattern is on the dark fabric. Paisley? Don't look up. Not unless you've been given permission. I haven't received that yet. Don't listen to them either. I don't want to know the details. I don't want to comprehend, understand how they know each other. I don't get it. I don't want to get it. I just want to do what I'm supposed to do and get the fuck out of here. I don't want to linger. I don't want to listen to the small talk.

He steps back. Robau pushes me forward and we enter the Emperor's penthouse.

"I've gotta say, Richard. She isn't what I was expecting."

My breath catches. They've directed the conversation to me. The smooth sharp edges of the blade rest against my back. Comforting.

"Oh, believe me, Archer, this girl here, she can bring a fucking Vulcan to his knees, sobbing. You'll be pleased. Trust me. She's quite the ride."

I flinch. My eyes slam close. This is what Robau's been grooming me for? To fuck the Emperor, then kill him? But he promised me I wouldn't have to do that again. But then, he—

They're talking. Exchanging words. The blood rushing in my ears is too loud, it drowns the drones of their voices out. I should probably listen to them. I should probably pay attention. There might be some clue in their conversation. But I can't. Or I won't.

Still trying to decide which it is.

.

The door slides open and closed again. Robau has left me. Alone with the Emperor.

I have one hour.

One hour to—

To fuck him? To kill him, yes. But when will I know when to make my move? When will I know it's the right time? When will I know my time is over.

A hand clenches my chin and forces my face up. I stare into the eyes of the Empire's leader for the first time. Strong, chiseled jaw. Stern eyes. Slight wrinkles across his forehead, laugh lines along his face. He resembles his famous father immensely, the man who crossed the boundaries of the universes, who slipped into the Vintaak System and brought to the Empire a vessel unlike any we'd seen. The _USS Defiant_. He brought that to us. And his son is now our leader.

"You're quite pretty, aren't you?" His voice is soft, belying the harshness I know to lie underneath. He is the leader who continues to allow us to suffer, who has signed laws into being. He deserves to die. He tilts my head to the side. Hums. "Seems like someone was a naughty girl, huh?"

Robau struck me. A bruise must be forming.

He releases my chin. His hands settle on my body. Skimming across the fabric of the uniform. Squeezing my breasts. Flitting between my legs.

My eyes settle on some spot in the distance. A dark spot on the Baroque wallpaper of the room. If I just stay silent, stay pliant, compliant, it'll be over quicker. Then I can—

What?

He pushes down his pants then grabs my hand. Brings it to his half-hard dick. Presses my hand against it. I know what he wants me to do. I've done it so many times.

I close my eyes, squeezing my lids close. I wrap my fingers around his prick. Pump.

It'll be over soon.

He groans.

I fight bile rising.

This man doesn't care if I receive pleasure from this or not. That's the difference between this man—all the other men—and Commander Spock. The Commander, despite my reservations, my fears, my self-hatred, at least made sure I was ready for him.

This man, the Emperor. He won't care.

He wraps his arms around me, leans in. Presses his lips against mine, my neck. In a mock attempt to make this mutual. To make this seem like something consensual. He steps back, his prick falls away from my hand. He grabs the collar of my top and yanks it open. Buttons fly. Fabric rips.

I continue to stare at that dark spot on the wallpaper.

He shoves the top off my shoulders and it tumbles to the ground. The rustling of the fabric, loud in the silence of the room.

My bare nipples tighten as the cooler air strikes them.

It'll be over.

It won't be long now.

He touches me. His hands on my bare skin. Fingers pinch my nipples—I wince—hands squeeze my breasts.

"Yes. I can see why you're his favorite."

My eyes falter from the spot, fly to his.

He cups my face with his hands. "Tell me, gorgeous. What's your name?"

Answer him. He asked a question. I must answer. "N-Nyota." My name stumbles on my lips.

He brings a thumb to my mouth, traces it. "Nyota. I like it." He steps closer to me, towering. "You don't want to disobey your Emperor, do you?"

I shake my head.

"Good. If you behave, do as I say, I won't have to hurt you."

I choke on a sob. I nod. "Yes, sir."

"That's a good girl. Now, get on your knees."

I do. I wonder how many whores...Courtesans would envy my position. On my knees before the leader of our Empire. About to have him—he's going to fuck me.

He grabs me by the hair, steps in front of me. His prick, eye level. I know what he wants me to do. I—

I can't do it. I brace myself on his thighs and push away. "No."

He stumbles, I fall backwards.

He yells. Anger. Frustration. The little whore isn't doing as she's told. He strikes me. I fly sideways, narrowly missing the edge of the great wooden coffee table.

I crawl away from him. I need to get to my feet. My hand reaches behind my back, reaching for the knife.

He grabs me by the neck, hauls me up—I scream—slams me into the coffee table. He's yelling, but I can't hear his words. The sting of the wood on my back overwhelms. The blade digs into my skin, I can feel it cutting me.

He hovers over me, his hands on my throat. Tightening. I struggle for the blade.

I feel the hilt in my hand. I wrap my fingers around it, he tightens his hold on me. Stars in my eyes. Does he aim to kill me? Or teach me a lesson?

I don't wait to find out. I pull the blade out from underneath me, the edges covered with a thin layer of blood, my blood.

Emperor Archer's eyes widen.

And I swing the knife upward; he screams. Jab it into his neck.

He gags. Falls on me.

I shove him off. Pull the knife out. Stab again. Chest. Stab over and over.

Crimson red covers the coffee table, drips onto the floor. Flies for the walls, the ceiling. Lands on me.

He gasps. Retches. Flounders.

I don't stop. I can't.

I stab and stab. I pant, I gasp. I cry.

He dies.

I back away from the body. Prostrate on the coffee table, like some kind of fucked up martyr.

I killed him.

Where's the joy I should be feeling?

Tears fall. They blur. I fall to my knees. A puddle of blood beneath me.

.

Fingers wrap around my shoulders.

I scream. Hand covers my mouth.

A voice. Robau.

He's returned. He praises me. Congratulates me.

I wasn't useless after all, he says.

But—

He's sorry to say, though, he has no further use for me. The job's done. But don't fret. Scores of women throughout the Empire will know what I did for them. But don't escape. Can't escape anyway.

I look beautiful covered in red.

He would look quite handsome in red, as well. I think.

Liar.

Betrayer.

I spin. I stab. He dies.

A fallen lamp casts a shadow. A long shadow across the floor.

* * *

I stumble out of the door. My hands shake. Tremble. I did it. It's done.

Their blood is on my hands.

The door slides closed behind me, the quiet _pwoosh_ of air escaping a deafening exclamation to the violence that lay beyond. The hallway is dark, lit only by one singular fixture further down, close to the turbolift.

I raise shaking hands to my face, fingers through my disheveled hair. Dropping my gaze, I make a strangled sound—a strange mix of a gasp and a sob.

My top is torn, buttons missing, sash askew. I cling to the collar, clenching it my hands, covering my chest. Blood covers it, as well.

I can't stay.

I turn. Stumble to the turbolift. Press the button to summon it. My heart races in my chest while I wait. This is a hotel. A fancy, well-to-do hotel. I could be seen. I could be caught.

I pant, the puffs of air rushing past my lips. Oh, God. If I am spotted—

The turbolift arrives and the doors open. I rush inside, tripping over the lip. Press the button to go to the bottom floor.

I have to go through the lobby. Or I have to find a back entrance. I have to get out of here. I can't let anyone see me. I can't be arrested. I can't go to the Wall. I can't be executed. I can't—

I should have showered. Yes. I should have showered while I was in the hotel room, while their dead corpses started rotting while the blood still oozed from their mortal wounds.

Oh, God.

My stomach clenches and I feel bile burning my throat.

I drop my hands from my chest and lean forward, resting them against my knees. I close my eyes, take deep breaths. I need to get control of myself.

The door opens. I jerk up, my hand grasping my collar.

There's a man standing in front of me. Eyes wide. Small smirk on his face. Wearing a Starfleet cadet uniform.

James Kirk.

I freeze, my blood turns to ice. My breath escapes my lungs and I gasp, struggling for air.

I do not look innocent. Blood covers me. My clothing is torn. I'm coming from a hotel room.

His eyes narrow. What's he doing here? Why is he here? The smirk grows larger. Recognition lights his face. Oh, God. He knows who I am.

He steps forward and I stumble backwards, my legs locking.

This is it. This is the end. Tears burn.

He leans in towards me. "Take the hallway on the right and follow it until you come to a large double door. Turn left. At the end of the hall is the back exit."

I gasp. "What?"

He smiles. "Captain Pike will be pleased...Benjamin." He steps backwards and I shuffle forward, moving around him.

He's—he's letting me go? He's involved with this, too? I don't have time. I can't stop. I can't ask.

I rush down the hallway, following his orders, escaping into the darkness.

.

Blood pours out of his mouth. I loved you, you know. You made me proud. So different from the other girls. So much fire, passion. Yes, you were my favorite.

.

He shouldn't have come back.

I guess we all make mistakes.


	27. The Stains of Betrayal Burn

I hesitate at his door—the Commander's door. My hands are shaking, bloodied. The Emperor is dead. I killed the man. And I killed Robau. I should run; I shouldn't be back here.

I can't.

I should be feeling more guilt than I do.

I already know I can't. Even if it puts me in further danger, I can't. I can't run.

I feel so cold.

Everything's about to change. I am the assassin of the Emperor. The murderer of Richard Robau. When the sun rises and the dead body of this Empire's leader is discovered, everything will change.

I can't stay here.

Tears burn my eyes.

I don't know where I will go. Where I will go to escape this place, but I can't stay here. I can't stay with Spock. It can't happen. If I stay here, he will be in just as much danger as I will be. He's already done his part; he's already protected me when he didn't have to, when he should have turned me in. There will be questions. Who was the last person to see the Emperor, Robau? If I stay, the Commander is in danger. Because he will protect me. That's what he promised me so many months ago when he first took me on that desk in that office in the broken down building, slipping inside me, pressing against me, burying himself so far within.

There's a witness. I have been spotted. I am already in jeopardy. I can't trust Cadet Kirk. How can I? He's so trivial, so insignificant. A cadet. He can't help me.

He let me pass. Told me how to escape.

I can't question it. I can't focus on it. Because right now, it doesn't matter. It won't matter. It's only a matter of hours before the bodies are discovered. If they haven't been already.

The Commander promised me he would protect me. He promised.

But would he be willing to continue with it if he knew what I did? If he knew of the men I have murdered?

No. Assassinated. Executed.

They needed to be put down.

How will it change anything?

The door slides open and I enter.

It's dark—of course, it's dark; it was when I left. I move through the halls quietly. I peer into the bedroom. Spock is there, his form lying upon the bed. I head to the bathroom. The door closes and the room is bathed in the harsh lighting. It temporarily blinds me and I slam my eyes closed. But slowly, I grow used to the light and open them again. On the counter, the small dermal repair kit sits; it's been used. I peer at myself in the mirror.

I'm a mess. Plain and simple. My uniform is askew, rumpled, and torn. My hair is a tangled mess. My hands and face stained with their blood. I tear the uniform off, disgusted at myself, at Robau, and at the Emperor.

They screamed.

I relished in them.

Became possessed. Uncontrollable. Set on one thing.

I stand before the mirror, naked. I am marked by the Emperor's touch; a harsh ring of fingertip bruises around my neck, my collarbone. There are probably plenty of women in this Empire that would envy me for the sexual act he wanted me to engage in, the privilege of being with our great and powerful leader. But he disgusted me. He and Robau. They disgusted me when their shared laughter, bawd exclamations of what they had planned for me while I stood by, silent and shaking.

They got what they deserved.

I need to get rid of the blood. I turn the shower on and step in. It's hot, scalding, but that's okay. I want to burn the man's touch from my body.

In the next room, Spock sleeps and I am in here, struggling futilely to rid myself of another man's scent. It feels like betrayal. At some point, Spock and I have become something more. An understanding has formed between us. I don't know when it happened. Or how it happened. He has not touched sexually me since that incident outside the Wall, fearing another emotional breakdown from me. He wanted me to heal. I'm grateful for that. But, now, I have that man—that Emperor's touch searing into my skin. I want to forget it.

I scrub myself clean. The blood is gone, swirling down the drain. I turn the shower off and towel myself dry.

I enter the bedroom, where he still sleeps. He does not know that I left. Or, at least, I hope that he doesn't.

I crawl into the bed, naked.

Spock curls an arm around my waist and pulls me closer, my back to his chest; I release a small gasp. He breathes into my ear, "You've returned." His voice is rough with sleep.

I freeze, my body growing rigid.

"I do not require knowledge as to your whereabouts. I am merely thankful you have rejoined me."

I nod. "Me, too." I ignore the tears pooling in my eyes. Tomorrow, I will have to run.

.

The next morning, everything will be different.

* * *

Spock is awake before me. That's not unusual. I wake alone and throw the covers from my body. I grab his folded undershirt from the chair near the door and, pulling it on, exit.

Spock's seated at his desk, fingers steepled before his mouth. He's lost in thought. When I enter, he glances at me then returns his gaze ahead. "The Emperor and another man have been murdered."

My heart pounds in my chest, echoing in my ears. Does he know? Does he know that I was the one that did it? "H-how?"

"I am not familiar with the details as of yet, though Captain Pike informed me that the men looked like 'minced meat.'"

My heart seizes in my chest, my breath halts. Does he know? Does he know that I took a knife, sharpened to the finest point, and slid it into their bodies, watching it slice through their skin like thin paper? Does he know that I didn't care when they cried out?

"I am more concerned with the security breach within my office."

"S-security breach?"

He nods. "Yes. As Commander of the Special Forces, I am the only one who was entrusted with knowledge of the Emperor's whereabouts. They were to be secret while he was in town for the impending graduation ceremony. It appears that I have a soldier guilty of treason." His words are stilted, unnatural. Rehearsed. He'd been sitting at that desk for who knows how long, waiting for me to wake. To corner me, force a confession?

My eyes dart across the room, jumping from one side to the other before finally resting on his again. His gaze is level with mine, unwavering. He pushes himself away from his desk, his eyes never leaving mine.

It's in that instant that I know.

He knows.

He knows that I'm the one who killed the Emperor. Robau. I sliced his throat; I stabbed his chest. I stabbed and I stabbed. I did it. Tears sting my eyes. "I—I—"

They deserved it.

He stands and approaches me, placing his hands behind his back.

I can't look at him anymore. "I...I have to go. I can't stay here."

He closes the gap between us and raises my chin with his hand, fingers brushing across my flesh. "Where will you go?" How can he ask me that? He was the one who initially told me to escape, who told me I didn't belong here. Who also told me he would help me escape. And now, he questions where I'm going, how I'm going.

The tears fall and I shiver, fear pumping through my veins. "I don't know." I sob, my breath rushing out of my lungs. I want to lie. I want to say that an escape route has been planned for my eventual need. I want to say that it was planned for me to run away after I completed my orders. That I was to escape from the boundaries of the Academy, that a shuttlecraft would be waiting for me on the other side, ready to take me to a hideout. But I can't. I can't lie to him. Because...

Because of so many reasons. Because he'd be able to see—feel—straight through it, his fingers brushing my face.

Pike knows it was me. Is he planning on my escape route? Is he—

No. I need to stop kidding myself. There is no escape route. I'm the pawn in their game. I'm the scapegoat. I've got nowhere to go. Another sob escapes my lips. Robau wasn't planning on getting me out. He didn't care. He said he loved me. He made a mistake.

"It will be...all right?" Even as the Commander says those words, he questions them, his voice raises slightly on the final syllable. Even as he says those words, they feel like a lie. It won't be all right. Okay. It will never be okay. He can try to protect me but for how much longer? How much longer until his loyalty is called into question again, until he no longer desires me, until he no longer wishes to harbor a secret?

Even Spock doesn't believe his own words.

It won't be okay. I'm a marked woman. Now, more than ever.

"I have to go now." The words fall from my lips, tumbling down to hang between us. To hover. I can't rely on him. I couldn't rely on Robau. I am truly alone now.

"You cannot." He shakes his head, cupping my face with his hands.

"I have to."

He shakes his head again. He kisses me.

I gasp, pulling away from him. "No. I can't. I have to leave."

His fingers brush my temples. I relax. "Nyota. Please, postpone your exit."

I shake my head. "I—I can't."

"You can." He rests his forehead against mine; one hand drifts down my side, the underside of my breast, before wrapping around my waist. "If you are uncomfortable, tell me to stop."

He's offering me a choice. A choice to decide if I want to do this. If I want to allow him inside my body. A choice to erase Robau's touch, the Emperor's touch. Tears burn my eyes and they slide close and I bring my hands up to frame his face, pulling him closer, raising myself on my toes. I press my lips to his. I'm not going to think. I'm not going to analyze this. I'm just going to feel. I open my mouth and he slips his tongue in to mingle with mine. His other hand drop to my waist and he presses his body against mine. I bring my arms up and wrap them around his neck.

"Make me forget, please." Words whispered against his lips.

Spock makes quick work of my robe, shedding it from my body, letting it fall to the ground. His hand drifts downward and cups me. I moan into his mouth and he rubs his fingers against my clit.

It feels—I can't—I grow wet.

I pull at his uniform. I need him. I need him so badly. I haven't felt his touch in a month. I haven't felt him inside me. I want Robau's touch gone. I want the Emperor's touch gone.

Spock pulls away long enough to rid himself of the blue top and the golden sash.

My hands skirt across his chest; he gasps, jerking his body away. Small burn-like injuries on his chest. "Spock?"

He grabs my hands in his. "Do not concern yourself with it. They are minor injuries." He picks me up and carries me to his bedroom.

* * *

I arch my back, rising from the soft mattress and pressing my breasts against his chest. He pushes deep within me, moving slowly, thrusting languidly. I mewl and my hands run across the flesh of his back to his neck, mussing the dark short hair. I tease the pointed tips of his ears, brushing my fingertips across them; he shivers. I cup his face between my hands and bring his lips to mine.

We are so close.

I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him closer, deeper. It's not enough. It's never enough. I need him. I need him so far, so deep within me, I can't tell where I end and he begins. We are one.

He twists his hips and I moan into his mouth, intertwining my tongue with his. He groans and delivers a sharp deep thrust, grinding his pubic bone against mine. It's unexpected and I break the kiss, crying out, panting loudly. My fingers tighten against his shoulders, grounding myself when his thrusts grow more powerful.

I am so close.

This is blissful, pleasurable. It's not ugly, sinister, painful. There is no fear, no shame.

He presses his forehead against mine, his body against mine, pushing me into the mattress beneath me. His breathes heavily, small pants escaping his lips, in rhythm with his thrusts. He's close, too.

I can feel my body tense, growing rigid as my climax nears.

I cry out.

Suddenly, he stops thrusting and pulls away from my body, sitting back on his haunches. My eyes open and search feverishly for his. He does not speak but reaches down, wrapping his hands around me. He pulls me up, to sit on his lap. One arm wrapped around my hips, he encourages me to move. To take control.

I do so. Slowly. Carefully. Wrapping my arms around his neck, my legs around his hips, I begin to move.

His moans and my own cries tell me I'm doing it right. I move up and down, circle my hips. I meet his eyes and our gaze holds.

I arch my back, tossing my head back, and close my eyes, dislodging my gaze from his. So close. A few more thrusts. My long hair dances against my back, skirting across his thighs. He moans.

I increase the speed of my movements. Desperation for that sweet release drives me. I moan, whimper, and my breath comes in pants. He drops his head to my chest, taking one of my breasts in his mouth, lavishing it with his tongue. His lips, his teeth tweak my nipple into a tight bud, driving me further. He moves to my other breast.

God, I need release. Why hasn't it come yet?

My body is tense and I feel release on the horizon, but it hasn't arrived yet. I keen, the noise bouncing off the walls and dancing with the slapping sounds of our flesh, and my thrusts become uneven, desperate. I grind my clit against his pubic bone and, gripping his arms, I lean further backwards and arch my back more, tightening around him, squeezing him deep within me.

He cries out, tightening his grip on my hips; he's lost any semblance of Vulcan stoic calmness. He pulls me up, pressing me against his chest, and rests his forehead against mine. He kisses me, our tongues intermingling. I groan into his mouth, my movements on his cock never ceasing. A hand squeezes the flesh of my hip, propelling me onward. He brushes his other hand across my temple, pressing his fingers gently against my skin.

And, tearing my lips from his, I come with a scream, convulsing around his cock.

Spock groans against my neck, his hands tightening around my hips, holding me still. He breathes deeply, slowly.

He hasn't come yet.

He kisses me again, running his tongue across my lips. He grips my hips and lifts me up and down on his cock. I moan into his mouth and restart my rhythm. His hands drift from my hips up my back to cup my face. He pants into my mouth, groaning.

Spock tightens his grip on my waist and moves us, propelling me backwards onto my back once more. I grab his shoulders and he increases the speed of his thrusts.

I cry out, throwing my head back, my eyes closing. I can feel another orgasm fast approaching.

He kisses my throat, lathering me with kisses and his lips move upwards toward mine. He slams his cock into me, grinding his pubic bone against my clit with each thrust. He captures my cry with his lips.

I come again. My pussy tightens around his cock and he grunts, never ceasing his thrusts. My eyes roll backward and I arch my back.

He quickly follows me, gripping my hips. His thrusts, uneven, jerky. He collapses against me, his weight oddly comforting, and kisses me. He doesn't say anything, and I don't either. What can we say? I have killed the Emperor—and Robau; would he see me punished for that murder, or is it 'an eye for an eye'?—and he knows it. But he will keep quiet; he will allow me to run. Won't he? I just don't know where I'm going. God. Where am I going to go?

He breaks the kiss and brushes the hair out of my face, cupping my cheeks. He rests his forehead against mine and takes a slow breath.

Tears burn in the back of my eyes and I close them. I don't want them to fall.

Our final moment.

This is a moment I should have yearned for, something I should have prayed for. But it's here now and I don't want it. Because I will be alone when this moment is done. And I don't want that.

He places another kiss on my lips and brushes the hair from my face. "I am sorry, Nyota." The words are spoken with such emotion, with such poignancy that I have never heard from him before.

I open my eyes, searching for his, but he refuses to meet my gaze. "Spock?" I want to cringe at the weakness of my voice. I'm not weak. Not any longer.

"I am under strict orders."

There's a yell outside the room and the door slides open and men rush in. Spock is grabbed from behind and pulled away from me.

I scream, exposed to these strangers. They hold their phaser rifles towards me, at Spock, heedless of our nudity. Seeing my body, the soldiers grin and their eyes, their hands slither across my body. I tremble, fear pulsating through my veins, and I try to get away. Away from their touch, them.

But one of them slams his fist into the side of my head and I stumble, falling back onto the bed. Dazed.

The soldier grabs my neck, his fingers wrapping around my throat, and hauls me back up, pressing me into his chest. His free hand skitters across my breasts, his fingers sinking into my flesh, bruising.

I wince.

Spock, despite how illogical it is, fights the men holding him, tearing his arms free from their grips. He takes a step forward, towards me and my captor.

Another soldier steps forward and slams the butt of his phaser rifle into Spock's face and he falls to his knees.

I cry out, my hands grabbing at my captor's where they tightened around my throat. He fights with me, pinning my arms behind my arching back with a strong hand, my breasts jutting out for the men to gaze at, to reach out and touch if they desire, as his other hand tightens around my neck in such a way that I will bruise. And I can't fight them or their fingers.

"What are you doing? Attacking a Starfleet officer?"

That voice. I know that voice. My eyes drift from Spock, who spits emerald green blood onto the floor, but otherwise does nothing.

The soldiers part like the Red Sea. And Captain Pike, Admiral Barnett, and—

—And Cadet Kirk—

And Kirk enters.

I gasp. The men tighten their grip on me, squeezing my arms.

Admiral Barnett approaches me, glaring at my nude body, my thighs still slick with Spock and my combined fluids, with sweat. His eyes linger there before briefly drifting to Spock, eying his equally nude body. Barnett looks at the men holding Spock's arm. "I think we can let him go, don't you?"

"Yes, sir." The men release Spock, who looks at me, then at the other men, at Kirk, Pike and Barnett.

"May I ask the meaning of this interruption, Admiral?"

Barnett chuckles. "You damn well know why we're here, Commander." His hand snaps out and grabs my hair, forcing my head back and causing me to cry out in pain, in fear. "Is this the whore you saw leaving the Emperor's hotel room, Cadet?" He looks at Kirk.

My eyes meet Kirk's. My heart pounds in my chest. Why? Why is he here? He let me go. Why is the Admiral asking him that question? Is he going to—

"Yes, sir. That's the dirty little whore I saw him with." He doesn't meet my gaze, but he smiles.

My heart drops a mile in my stomach. He didn't see me with him. He saw me leaving the turbolift. Circumstantial evidence, my brain screams. Circumstantial, at best. But it's my word—a woman's word—against his—a man. They will not believe me. My breath comes in pants, hyperventilating. I'm going to die.

It was the plan. I wasn't meant to escape.

The Admiral approaches Spock. "Good job, Commander, with detaining the suspect until we were able to arrive."

Tears spring into my eyes and I look at Spock. _I am sorry. I'm under orders._ His words mock me. It — it was nothing. It was a diversion. Something to keep me here until they arrived. He betrayed me. He drops his eyes from mine. No. He wouldn't. "Sp—" My voice breaks off.

"You will find her clothing in the bathroom, should you need it for evidence."

"Thank you, Commander." Barnett turns to the soldiers and orders them to retrieve my uniform. He turns to face me. "In the meantime, we will escort Miss—"

"Uhura," Spock supplies.

I can't think. I can't do anything. He turned me in? He promised. He promised he would help me escape. He promised he would keep me safe. He promised to lie for me.

"—Miss Uhura here to Special Forces Headquarters, where she will await your next move, Commander."

"Spock?" My voice is a tiny whisper. My heart has been shattered.

He doesn't look at me; instead, he focuses his attention on the men. "Of course, Admiral." He turns to Pike. "Thank you for alerting me to the situation, Captain Pike."

My hearing fades until I can only hear the rushing of my blood through veins. Blood that will not flow for much longer.

Oh, God. No. No. No.

I can't say anything. I can't do anything. I'm going to die. But Spock's already killed me. I'm already dead.

They drag me from his apartment, naked and frightened, tears streaming down my face.


	28. The Scarcity of Hope in Torment

They take me to the Wall. Parade me down the street, my arms tight in their hands, squeezing. I can't escape. My body shivers in the cool early morning weather. I'm uncovered, my body exposed to the curious eyes of leering men. In front of me, Admiral Barnett and Captain Pike march. And Commander Spock—I don't know where he is. I don't care. I don't want to see him. We pass the hanging body. My mind screams for Gaila. For all of them. Through the gates and into the giant building. No windows. My coffin.

I won't be leaving this place alive.

No one does.

I'm dragged into a room in the basement. I don't fight. What's the point? There is no point. My heart drops. And they pull me into the center of the room, grab my wrists and pull them above my head, securing them with the chains hanging from the ceiling. I am left dangling, my toes barely finding purchase on the floor beneath.

And then they leave me there.

I'm too terrified, too broken to cry anymore. This is my prison. I will die. I will not escape. I was never going to escape. The Commander had no intentions of helping me, of saving me. I see that now. I understand that now. The Empire is far too entrenched in him for him to risk his life for mine. He was biding his time, waiting for the best moment to make his move.

This is the same room where he killed Gaila. I remember it. I remember it clearly. I was in his mind, we were one. He showed me his memories of this place, showed me Gaila, his father. I'm here now. I'm next. Was I always next? Or did I get bumped to the top of the list the second I slid that knife into the Emperor's gut?

He got what he deserved.

My wrists hurt. The chains dig into my skin. I try to raise my body higher, standing on my toes, to lessen the pressure. My foot slides on the slick cold floor underneath me and I stumble, falling. But the chains catch me, jerking my shoulders, cutting into my skin, and I cry out, gasping. My lungs struggle for air, struggle against the pressure.

I can't breathe.

I gave myself to him, willingly—he knew what happened to me, what my parents did, the Admiral, Robau; he knew, he knew it all—I let him inside. Inside my body. My mind. My h—

How long will I be left here? Will I suffocate to death, my body struggling against my bonds, my lungs seizing with each difficult breath?

Should I have killed him instead?

My eyes close.

* * *

The door slides open, a loud hum and groan as it slides across the grooves in the ceiling and floor, echoing against the metal walls. A sense of finality.

I open my eyes and gasp. My lungs burn already. They've been burning. I don't know how much longer I can take the strain.

How do people last so long? I've been here for only a few hours and already my arms ache, my lungs burn.

Admiral Barnett and Captain Pike enter. And Commander Spock.

He's dressed in his uniform. It's finely pressed, cleaned. His hair is once again pristine—he's had a haircut, the traditional Vulcan style; when did he have time for a haircut; how long have I been here? The wound on his lip, where that soldier struck him with the rifle, is closed, clean, almost healed, in fact. His eyes stare straight forward, outside a face of complete blankness, complete Vulcanity. He won't look at me.

I feel tears burn. But I don't call his name. It won't matter. I don't matter to him. I realize that now. It was a farce. Of course it was a farce, I know that. God, don't I know that. I was only allowing him inside because I needed his protection. A heavy painful weight settles in my chest, crushing my lungs. It hurts to breath.

The Commander glances at the men beside him. They say nothing and so he steps forward, and approaches me, retrieving a scanner device from a nearby table. The device rests beside a knife, a larger knife, pliers, forceps, an agonizer, a gag. Oh, God. My breathing, already taxed, becomes more difficult. I think I might hyperventilate. The Commander bends and grabs my foot, the one that bears that wretched barcode tattoo that I struggle to ignore every day. I cry out. I don't want him to touch me. Not anymore. I try to pull my foot away from his grasp, but he tightens his fingers around my ankle and brings that device to the tattoo. It beeps, announcing that it read the lines of the barcode. And Spock releases me and moves away, his gaze on the device. He places it on a nearby table and grabs a PADD. He presses several buttons, spends several minutes reading through files on the thing. Then he types in more information. He walks to Admiral Barnett and hands him the PADD.

I'm cold. I want clothes. I want something. I shiver, quiver, tremble. I can't stop. I feel the prickly goose bumps on my flesh, the hairs on my skin standing up. I'm chained inside this room without anything to wear and these men stare at me. There's no compassion, no concern. I don't deserve clothing.

My eyes follow the Commander. He returns to his previous position, hands behind his back, eyes straight ahead.

I hate him.

The Admiral takes the device from him and reads it. When he's finished, he looks at me. "Well, Miss Nyota Uhura, it appears you've acquired quite the rap sheet." He walks closer to me, waves the PADD in my face. "Violation of the contract between your parents and Admiral Fredericks."—That was his name? The first man to take everything from me, my innocence, my hope…I never knew his name; it doesn't bring me any comfort, though—"The subsequent murder of Admiral Fredericks. Ah, we've been looking for his murderer—he was a respected admiral, greatly missed. Impersonating a cadet of Starfleet. Enrolling into Starfleet despite your sex, conspiracy to commit treason, treason. And, of course, the assassination of Emperor Archer. And the murder of Richard Robau, a well-respected philanthropist and friend of the Emperor and his family."

My eyes dart from Barnett to Sp—to the Commander, but he still won't look at me. Why won't he look at me? Guilt?

My eyes dart away from him. Across the room, in the corner, there's a large cylindrical device. An agony booth. I remember those things. I've seen them. I've been inside. We all have. Part of training here at the Academy. They need to make sure you'd be able to survive intense attempted information extractions, in case you were captured by the enemy. Or something like that. Torture, more like. There's been talk within the Academy and Headquarters whether or not they should be implemented as a means of discipline to keep officers and soldiers in line.

I know that if I was faced with the prospect of being forced into that machine, I'd behave.

Admiral Barnett stops in front of me, blocking my view of the booth. That's right. I need to focus on this right now. "Now, do you understand the seriousness of your crimes, Miss Uhura?"

I nod. There's nothing else I can do. It would be stupid to do otherwise. Yes, I know my crimes. I know I committed them. I know why I did them. They deserved it.

The door opens behind the men and two soldiers, one holding a bucket, enter. They move around Pike, Spock and Barnett to stand behind me. Spock looks at them, his eyes widening slightly. The first reaction I've seen from him since he entered this torture chamber. But otherwise, he does nothing. I can hear the men moving around behind, the clanging of metal on metal. I shiver, fear coursing through me.

Barnett steps closer to me. "Good for you. Now, those of us in here aren't monsters, Nyota. We don't want to hurt you anymore than necessary. So, we need you to help us and tell us what we want to know."

I swallow the lump in my throat. My throat's dry, my tongue is stuck to the roof of my mouth. I can't say anything, even if I wanted to—I don't; what can I say when I'm guilty? My heart pounds in my chest, sweat covers my body. This is true fear. I'm terrified. He speaks so calmly, so surely. His voice is gentle, kind. And that makes it all the more terrorizing.

Barnett steps to the side. And I am doused in ice cold water. I scream. Thousands of tiny frost-tipped needles prick the skin on my back. I shiver, my muscles convulse. Behind me, the sound of a bucket being placed on the ground, scraping.

The Admiral stands in front of me once more. "I don't know who told you, but assassinating the Emperor doesn't change anything for your Rebel friends. The new one is currently being installed. The Empire will continue as it always has, powerful, invincible. So, I need you to tell me, Miss Uhura, who was the one who ordered you to kill the Emperor?"

Should I tell him? Would it make a difference? Robau has betrayed me, I killed him. Should I do the same for him? Would it make me a better person if I remain silent, if I protect him, his name for the cause? Or will it make me a stupid naive person? My eyes dart to the men in front of me: Barnett, Pike, then finally resting on Spock. He still won't look at me.

"N-no one ordered me, sir. I did it on my own."

A whistle. A snap.

The lash slices through the skin on my back. I scream, tears burning my eyes. My breaths catch in my throat. Something warm trickles down my back. Blood. My eyes feverishly search for Spock. He's not looking at me; his eyes are closed, his head turned slightly downward. How dare he remain still, silent. What difference does it make? He's one of them. He doesn't care.

Barnett moves to stand in front of me, blocking my view. "Now, we both know that's not true, don't we? The careful planning, positioning. No woman could have done it. So, tell me, who is your leader?"

I don't know what I'm supposed to say. I don't know if I should name Robau. What good would that do? He can't defend himself. I killed him. Do I give him up? Would they believe me? Why is the Admiral questioning me? I thought this was the Commander's job. "It was me, sir."

The whip slices my back again. And, again, I scream. I can't—I'm unable to hold it in. My legs twitch and I lose my footing. The shackles prevent me from falling—the chains tense above my head—but they dig in. How? How long can I do this? Why can't they just kill me now? I just want to crawl away, curl up, hide.

The Admiral steps in front of me and bends forward, placing his face within inches of mine. "Now, Miss Uhura, you're making me look like a hypocrite. We don't want to hurt you—"

"We just want to hear you scream a little."

Barnett jerks his head back. "That's enough, Captain." He turns back to me. "We don't like hurting people." God, how can he lie like that? Has he not seen the bodies hanging outside this building? Has he not seen the broken faces of the women, of the alien races the Empire has conquered? Is he so blind to our suffering? His gaze drops down to my nude body. "You are a very beautiful woman, Nyota. One I wouldn't mind making mine. You don't have to suffer through this. I could take you away, make you my wife." He cups my cheek with a hand.

I close my eyes—I don't want to look at him. I want to pull away. I want to hit him. How can he lie to me so effortlessly? Does he think I would believe him? Does he think I would want to be his? Even if I did, I couldn't be. I'm a criminal. I won't leave this room alive.

He takes a step back; his hands fall away from my face.

SNAP!

My body arches, desperate to get away from the agony, and I cry out.

"Tell me, Nyota. Who ordered you to do this? I know you didn't do this on your own. There's no way you could have planned this on your own. So, save everyone the trouble and just name your co-conspirators."

I shake my head.

The whip snaps again.

"You don't have to suffer like this. If you tell us, tell us who you're working with, who gave you the order to kill the Emperor, we can work something out."

There's a part of me that wants to believe him. My head drops to my chest. I want this to stop. How can anyone last during this? How did Sarek survive years and years of this?

How could he do this to me?

 _Nufau au sochya yi dungi ma tu sochya_. I remember those words etched into the floorboards of the Admiral's bedroom — of my prison cell. But I guess he has a name now. What was it? Franklin? No. Fredericks. My finger traced those words over and over and over. I wanted someone to save me from that place. I wanted my parents, my knight in shining armor to burst through the door and save me. They didn't. No one did.

I had to save myself.

I wanted to believe that Robau was my savior. I wanted to believe the Commander was my tarnished hero.

No. You can't trust anyone.

I don't want to fight anymore. I just want to sleep. I just want—

God. I don't know.

 _Nufau au sochya yi dungi ma tu sochya._ Offer them peace. Then you shall have peace. Peace. I want peace. I'm so tired. So tired of fighting them. Fighting everything. I just want to forget it all. If I—can I ever just forget it all?

"Robau." His name spills from my lips. I can't stop it. I don't think I want to stop it.

Barnett steps closer to me, close to my face. "What was that, sweetheart? I didn't quite catch it."

I close my eyes. "It was Robau. He told me to do it."

He steps back and laughs. It's loud, piercing. It hurts my ears.

Another lash. Another scream. My legs fold and I hang by wrists. I can't fight it anymore. I'm going to die.

Barnett still laughs. Pike joins him.

"Nyota. I asked for your co-conspirators. And—"

"It was Robau. He ordered me. It was always him."

"You're lying, sweetheart."

I shake my head. It's so hard to breath. My wrists hurt. My back sears. My heart aches.

"How inconvenient for you, isn't it? The man who told you to assassinate the Emperor lying dead in a pool of his own blood in the exact same room. Both killed by the same knife. By the same person."

"It was him. It was him." It becomes my mantra. It was him. It was always him.

"Convenient how he can't defend himself, isn't it?"

The whip snaps again. I scream. My throat is harsh. My eyes dart around the room, falling on the faces of each of the men. Barnett, Pike: they're relishing in this. They're getting off on this. The Commander, he still won't look at me. He still stares ahead. Fuck him. The pain ebbs. "It was Robau. It was him. Him." Over and over.

"See, do you want to know my problem with this? Richard Robau has given much to the Empire, to the Emperor. Great friends with him, in fact. Why would he want to have him killed? And why would he order a woman, a whore to do it?" The Admiral's words mock me.

Robau had been lying to me from the beginning. I was always a sacrificial lamb being raised for slaughter. Me. And the other women at the hideout. We didn't mean anything to him. A means to an end. Use us to bring down the Emperor, the Empire, then slip in and enjoy the spoils himself. Crown himself, even. He just never counted on me killing him.

Will it ever end?

Another lash. My throat aches. Tears fall. I don't care. I don't care because it doesn't matter.

Movement in front of me catches my eyes. I look up. The Commander moves to the door, his back turned to me. No. He's not allowed to leave. He sent me here. He can't run away from his actions.

"You haven't been dismissed, Lieutenant Commander." Pike's voice is gruff.

Lieutenant Commander? Since when? Why?

The Vulcan halts his steps but remains facing the door. His shoulders straight. "Permission to leave, sir?"

Pike wave his hand off-handedly. "Denied."

The Commander stiffens; Pike smiles. "Relax, Spock. And enjoy the show. It's just getting started." He faces me and crosses his arms.

"With all due respect, sir, I feel my time would be better spent gathering the required evidence for the tribunal."

"Turn and watch, Spock," Barnett says.

He doesn't move.

"That's an order, Spock."

Pike laughs. And the Admiral turns his attention back to me. Barnett asks me again and I give him the same answer because I have no other answer to give. The whip hits me again, ripping a scream from my body.

I cry out. All I feel is pain. It's so encompassing, so overwhelming. Everything—I'm not supposed to be here. He said he would keep my secret. Why didn't he? Why am I here? He was going to help me escape. " _Tu ugua-tor nash-veh. Tu var-tor nash-veh tu var-tor au ri, kuv nash-veh tor ra tu taitlun. Ra riyeht tor nash-veh kugau_?" The words pour from my lips. I can't hold them back.

Slowly, the Commander turns to look at me. His eyes land on mine and I struggle to maintain contact. Tell me. Tell me, you fucking bastard. I have a right to know. I have the right to know why I'm here because of him. Why did he do that?

"What the hell did she just say?" Pike asks.

"Nothing." The Commander drops his gaze from mine, looking at his captain. "Nothing, sir. She said nothing of importance."

A whimper escapes my lips, choked.

Pike laughs. "Well, think of it this way, Spock. The little slut is finally getting what was coming to her. She's been making you soft. It was becoming an embarrassment."

I can't look at him. The tears blur my eyes.

The whip hits me again.

I scream.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation:
> 
> You promised me. You said you wouldn't tell them if I did what you wanted. What did I do wrong?


	29. The Chains Tighten Their Choking Grasp

I ache, my head leaning forward slightly, hindered by my shackled arms, chained above my head; my shoulders ache, a constant throbbing radiating throughout my entire body. I grimace slightly, feeling the stickiness of my blood, the errant strands of my hair trapped in the drying red fluid down my back. I have long forgotten to be concerned with my exposed flesh, my exposed breasts, exposed pussy. It doesn't matter. None of it matters.

I take a deep breath. It's difficult.

It hurts.

.

.

He laughed at me. I didn't know him. I'd never seen him before. Some cruel man sent here to obtain information, sent here when Pike got bored—God, why don't I say Pike's involved?—when Barnett retired to his office. I haven't seen Spock since… He grabbed the agonizer from the tray. He approached me, grabbed my chin and forced me to look at him. "You're a little cocksucker, right?"

I tried to jerk my face away. No. I didn't want to talk to him. I didn't want him to touch me. My eyes trained to the agonizer in his hand. There's only one reason he'd grab it.

My body ached, my back seared, stung. Blood caked to me; I felt it.

"I hear you fucked that Vulcan pretty fucking good." He laughed. "Had him eating out of your hand. Or pussy." He traced the agonizer across my lips, slow and steady; grabbed my hair, forced me to look at him. "You must be one hell of a cocksucker to get that bastard to become—what would he say?—emotionally compromised?"

I didn't say anything. There was nothing I could say. I was terrified. Can't just close your eyes and wish yourself somewhere else. Can't hide. Not anymore. You can't try to ignore it. It doesn't work. It's impossible to forget that this man standing in front of you, grasping your face, can bring you pain you have never discovered, never felt before.

He forced my mouth opened. Shoved the agonizer in. Turned it on. I couldn't cry out. I couldn't scream. And I couldn't pass out, couldn't escape into the realms of unconsciousness. Because that's how it was designed, you know. The tiny little device and its larger counterpart standing across the room. What's the fun, what's the use of tormenting someone with it if she passes out within moments, seconds? The device rotated its settings, keeping me right on the edge.

I couldn't speak. I couldn't do anything. My body shook, seized.

He stopped when another man came in. A man with a Southern drawl. A doctor.

.

"Someone in that office likes you, doll," he said, walking behind me. His feet shuffled along the floor; I didn't look at him, my eyes squeezed shut. I was still trying to escape. "My services aren't requested often on live patients."

I panted, still reeling, but otherwise, remained silent. That accent. I knew it. I recognized it. That man, that doctor from outside the Wall. The one who forced me against the concrete wall, who nearly—if Commander Spock hadn't interrupted—

I gasped, jerked away from him. "No." I didn't want his hands on me. I didn't want him behind me. I was defenseless. If he remembered, if he wanted to continue what he started against the Wall, without his friends, with fear of being caught—who cares if the prisoner, the criminal suffers?—he could. I wouldn't be able to stop him. But…God, I don't want—I just want to rest.

"Now, now." He healed the gashes in the my back; I felt the slight pull and stitching of my skin. The dermal repair kit, the other medical equipment doing their jobs. "Fix you up good as new." I felt his wandering hands across my body. I was defenseless.

.

But it was pointless, the Southern doctor healing me, because the moment he left, the cruel man put them back.

.

.

I glance at the agony booth across the room and cringe. The pain is still fresh on my mind, even if it left no lasting effects. Not like the whip. The knives.

I hear metal scraping against metal and grimace, steeling myself for the pain I know will come.

It can't possibly cause me any more pain than I already feel.

Does **he** care? The Commander? Does he care? I haven't seen him since they dragged me in here—how many days was that? Three? Four? How long have I been hanging here; how long have I endured this? Maybe it hasn't been days yet. Maybe it's only been hours. I don't know. I can't remember.

Everything bleeds together, pain mingling with questions. Bright Red. Running down the floor to the drain.

My interrogator—my torturer, because that's what he is, but interrogator sounds so much nicer, doesn't it? Like this isn't hell and I'm not being interrupted, and I'm not being pushed to the threshold, screaming; of course, 'interrogator' is a lie—he approaches, rushing across the small room, and grabs me by the hair, forcing my head back. He presses the blade of the knife—it's the serrated one this time, I feel: the teeth prickle my skin—against my cheek. Cutting, he smiles—it's a twisted smile, not at all pleasant—watching my blood flow. "When are you going to tell us?"

I spit in his face. Because I have told them. I've told them over and over and over. What difference does it make? It makes no difference. I could name another man, one still living—I could name Commander Spock, if I wanted; I should name Pike, I'll try that next time—and I'd still be here, strapped to the ceiling with iron shackles so low-tech it's astounding; when do I get laid out on the metal gurney in the far corner, the one Gaila was strapped to when the Commander killed her? It doesn't matter, because I'm still guilty. I jabbed the knife in those men's bodies. I watched their blood pour out of them. I didn't care. I still don't. I'd do it again if given a choice. I'm going to die.

Captain Pike knows the truth. And I do now, as well. I was never meant to survive. I am the lamb sent to slaughter. Robau? Pike? They were wolves in sheep's clothing. Training me, protecting me until it was my time. Until the precise moment when it was time for the Emperor to die. I don't understand all of it, I don't understand their plan, their intentions, and I'm not meant to. I'm not privy to that information. It is none of my business. I was nothing more than bait, a decoy. A scapegoat. Get rid of the Emperor and then, in the impending chaos and anarchy, they slip in and take the crown. Take power.

I'm still not sure where the Commander factors into all of this.

The man growls, releasing a loud cry that echoes in this metallic room. He throws his fist back and punches me; my head flies to the side. "Bitch!"

I spit out the blood from my mouth, watching idly when it splatters against the harsh metallic floor. "Go fuck yourself." My voice scratchy, hoarse. I've screamed so much.

The man's eyes grow wide and his cheeks flush. He throws the knife aside—it clangs against the wall—and drops his hands to the zipper of his pants. "I think I'd rather fuck you instead."

My eyes widen, revealing the first semblance of fear. I shake my head, pulling futility at my shackles, grimacing when the metal cuts into my injured wrists, when my weight aggravated my shoulders. I feel helpless—I **am** helpless—tears burning in my eyes. I don't know why I'm fighting this. He's not the first. He won't be the last, I'm sure.

He laughs, pulling out his prick. He steps toward me, stroking himself.

"No!" I hate my moment of weakness, my cry. But I fear his actions more. I fight against my bonds, pulling at the chains. But my arms have been

.

.

He flies across the room, slamming into the far wall and sliding down.

I gasp and look at my savior, his back turned to me.

"You are dismissed, Lieutenant."

Spock.

The man stumbles to his feet and leaves the room quickly, embarrassed and tucking himself back in his pants.

Commander Spock turns and faces me. We are alone for the first time since he—since he turned me in. Since we made love. That **has** to be what that was. Right? Please, tell me that's what it was. But that's a crazy thought, isn't it? What do I know of love? What do I **want** to know of love? It's not good. It hasn't saved me. It hasn't helped me. My parents' love for me is what put me on the path that led to this very moment all those years ago. And the Commander? He's Vulcan. He speaks so...unemotionally about his mother's execution, his own commitment of patricide.

But that final moment between us. There was **something** there. Something I hadn't felt before, something we hadn't experienced, participated in. It might have been love. It might have been something else entirely.

But it doesn't matter. Because he's the reason I'm in this room. He turned me in.

He told me he would help me escape. I trusted him. Why? Why did I trust him? How could I? He forced me into that sexual relationship, used me for his pleasure. Threatened me so many times.

I'm so tired.

For the first time since I've been here, I don't fight my tears and I let them finally fall freely, blurring my vision. It's so tiring fighting them all the time. "Spock."

He stands unmoving, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, uncaring of my nudity, just like me. "The decision has been made."

I nod and my head feels heavy, like lead. They've decided what they're going to do with me. Despair fills me with his cold stare. He is angry with me. Furious. His face is neutral, the very epitome of a Vulcan stoic, but his eyes reveal the raging storm inside. He is the one who decides. He is the one who will decide my punishment. That is his job, right? That was my risk when I continued with him despite his promotion.

But—

Captain Pike referred to him as Lieutenant Commander. What the fuck's the difference? It doesn't really matter, does it?

"What will it be?" My words are quiet, resigned. Frightened.

He hesitates, his mouth opening and closing. His eyes close for a brief moment and he takes a deep steadying breath

I know what it will be. Why do I ask? Why do I want him to voice it? Do I need to hear it? Do I need to hear those words fall from his lips? Will they make it any more real that it is? I know that it will be—

"Death."

I sob sharply once, the sound catches in my raw throat and I choke, nodding my head. I turn my face away from him, into my raised arm, burying myself. Hiding. Rationally, I knew the punishment the moment I was dragged in here. Even told myself it was going to happen. But, emotionally, I am frightened, shattered, broken. My lover—the Vulcan I've given my body to, allowed to use me because of a simple declaration that he would protect me—has signed my death warrant. My body will hang outside this building, swaying in the wind until it is remembered that it must come down: the smell of rotting flesh will be too much. I shiver, my teeth chattering. My breathing increases rapidly, my breaths shallow.

He inhales deeply—I look at him—his eyes close. "The punishment for treason, for the murder of the Emperor is death. That is the law. The law I must abide."

The Empire, Commander Spock does not waste time with executions, as demonstrated by the bodies hanging, by Gaila's swinging body. I will most likely be dead by tomorrow. Maybe sooner.

"T-t-thank you. You...you don't have to stay." I drop my gaze to the floor, my sobs quiet. I don't know if I can bear his gaze any longer.

Silence.

"You deceived me."

I hold my breath, trying to regain control. **I** deceived him? Raising my tear-soaked face, I look at him, at his calm face, betraying none of the emotional turmoil bubbling under the surface. If there is any turmoil; I have my doubts. How can he talk to me about deception? How can he?

"You assured me that you would cease all relations with Mister Robau. That you would not seek him out. You lied."

My eyes close. I could tell him that the truth. That it was Robau who found me, that I never sought him out, but what's the point? I'm going to hang outside this place, swaying in the gentle breeze. "Yes. You were deceived. But I was the one more deceived."

His eyebrows furrow and he tilts his head. "Explain."

I cry, scream, choke. I don't know. A strange noise escapes my throat. Explain? "You turned me in. You promised me you wouldn't. And I believed you." I believed you because I needed to. Because I needed to believe **something**. I hold his gaze, earnestly. I did the one thing I told myself I would never do. Not when I saw the costs. Not when I saw what happened to Gaila. I trusted him, I relied on him.

His eyes widen and he is silent for several moments. I can't look at him, so I close my eyes, letting my tears fall. I've placed everything on the line. I've had dreams, I've had hopes. I've been deceived. By so many people. But also by myself. I was so desperate to believe, that I allowed myself to remain here. I should have run from the hotel. I should never have returned to his apartment, I should never have crawled into bed with him.

I can hear his breathing, deep and slow growing heavier. "I apologize, Nyota. I was under orders. It seems not all of us are strong enough to defy the Empire. Even if one tries."

I shake my head. I'm not going to look at him. I can't. And this was never about defying the Empire. Not for me. This was about changing the universe, making things better. Saving people. And maybe if I tell myself that enough times I'll believe it, I'll be able to deny that it was about me saving myself, finding freedom.

"They have been waiting for you to implicate me."

"What?"

"Captain Pike and Admiral Barnett. My loyalty to the Empire has been called into question a number of times since my association with you began."

"Pike—" I interrupted. "He…he's involved. He's the one who got me inside—"

"I know."

I open my eyes and look at him. He knows? "Then why—"

"You are not the only one on trial, Nyota. Captain Pike, he is most angry with me. I was ordered to turn you in. I could not disobey those orders, though it grieves me to see you here, because—" He halts and his eyes close. "Captain Pike ordered me to this place last night, under the guise of a discussion centering on the delay of the _Enterprise_. However, when I arrived, I was ordered to confess my conspiracy with you. Captain Pike knew of our relationship. He threatened me with the agonizer, amongst other implements. The Vulcan mind can withstand a great deal of torture, of pain, but it has its breaking point. This life is the life, the existence I am aware. I could not envision a life on the lam. My status within in Starfleet is the only thing that protects me; as you are well aware, alien races are treated with the same cruelness and inhumanity as the female human. I—" He hesitates. "—I was frightened of the threat that I would live the rest of my life either on the run from authorities or locked in prison like my father, tortured." He closes his eyes. "Captain Pike offered me a deal. If I were to give you to the authorities, I would remain free, though I would be demoted and removed from my position here at Special Forces and from the First Officer position on board the _Enterprise_. I accepted."

I look at him. Really look at him. He stares straight ahead, gazing at a spot somewhere behind me. He's just as lost, just as confused as me. The Empire is, has been his life. A life he was forced into, just as I was into mine. He was taken from his parents, his mother was executed and his father arrested. They loved him. And he still remembers them, cursed or blessed with that photographic memory of his. He kept a photograph of his dead mother and himself. He searched for his father and was forced to execute him once he found him. He was forced into this life, just like me, forced to do things against our wishes. To survive. Beaten, threatened. Forced to comply. We are more alike than different. Two twisted fucked up people in a twisted fucked up world. We really are.

He takes a deep breath. "When Captain Pike and Admiral Barnett enter, I wish for you to indict me."

I shake my head. "No."

"Yes."

"I can't. I won't turn you in because you're, what? Feeling guilty—"

"Guilt is a human emotion." An automatic response, I'm sure. He tilts his head. "It is true that I was not the assassin, but I am just as culpable. I became culpable when I refused to obey the law and report your presence in the Academy."

I shake my head. "No."

"You are expecting that I watch another human, another person whom I have—" He halts his words. "You are expecting me to allow another death to mire my conscience. A death that would be my fault because of my cowardice."

I sob, an ugly sound echoing in the room. "I'm sorry." I drop my head, resting my chin against my chest. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen. I didn't mean to get you involved. If I wasn't so careless, this wouldn't have happened."

He is silent and my sobs grew louder. I am scared, shaking horribly. I am heartbroken.

He moves, his clothing rustling, but I don't dare look at him. When he reaches out and touches my injured cheek gently, I jump, startled. I raise my tear-stained eyes to his.

"Shh." He breathes out, a whisper. He leans forward and kisses me.

I sob into his kiss.

"I am sorry," he whispers. "I did not have a choice."

I shake my head. "Why did you keep me secret for so long? Why didn't you turn me in sooner?"

He opens his mouth. Closes it. A slight shake of his head. "I do—I cannot adequately explain it."

The door slides open behind him and Barnett and Pike enter. Behind them, an unknown soldier, his face hidden behind a mask. My executioner.

"Oh, good, you're already here." Pike sidles up beside Spock.

"Captain." Once again, Spock has shifted into that cold, calculating officer. He steps backward, away from me. He leaves me reeling.

My eyes dart around the room, to each of the men. Death. I'm going to die. It's going to happen. Oh, God, it's going to happen.

My eyes close. And I try to be that fucking butterfly. I try to escape this. I don't want to be here. I—

The forest. The forest floor carpeted with butterflies. They dance around my feet, land on my legs, my arms. The wind tosses the leaves above. I can hear a bird. Its call—

"Nyota Uhura, you have been found guilty of the crimes of which you've been accused. The punishment for which is death. Do you understand?" Barnett's voice is loud, booming in my ears, ripping me from my calm.

Tears blur my eyes, but I nod my head. I'm terrified. It's stupid to say that you're not afraid of death. Because when the moment happens, when it's imminent, you're afraid. What's going to happen afterwards? Is there anything on the other side? Any sort of utopian paradise? Or is it just darkness? Silence?

"You're in luck, Miss Uhura. Commander Spock here has elected that your death be swift. We've decided to honor his wish, as much as I'd love to hear you scream some more." Barnett turns to the faceless soldier.

The man reaches for his phaser holster and unleashes the strap. He pulls the weapon out.

I stare at the phaser, unable to tear my blurred eyes away from it. It spells my death. I watch the Executioner bring it up chest-level, his fingers dancing across the controls. He raises it to my head.

My eyes close.

"Wait."

My eyes snap open and I look at Pike, at Barnett. Is he about to confess?

Pike smiles. "Have Commander Spock do it."

I gasp and my eyes dart to Spock. His eyes are wide, staring straight ahead at nothing.

Pike laughs. "Yeah. I **like** that idea. Let's have Commander Spock do it." He grabs the weapon from the soldier. "You're free to go."

The soldier salutes and rushes from the room.

Pike moves to Spock and hands him the weapon.

Spock takes it slowly, his hand grasping the grip of the phaser. He looks at me and steps forward. His eyes seek mine.

I had not expected this. I don't want this. But I'm so tired.

He stands in front of me, close and blocking the other men's view of me. "Nyota." He's quiet, desperate to keep the others from hearing.

"Please, don't let them hang me on the Wall. Please." I plead before I can stop myself. I don't want to hang there. I don't want people to spit on me, to desecrate my body.

"I shall."

Behind him, Pike snickers. "She's betrayed the Empire, Spock. She murdered the Emperor. She used you. Now, kill her instead. Show her who's in charge. Show her she can never hope to topple the Empire."

Spock's eyes slide close for a brief moment. When he opens them, he looks at me. "Close your eyes."

He doesn't want me to see him when he pulls the trigger. I don't want to either. I gasp, my body shivering uncontrollably, tears coursing down my face. I close my eyes.

The pounding of my heart echoes in my ears, nearly drowning out everything. Beneath that echoing sound, I can hear Spock's slow, calm breathing, belying his own torment. He shuffles on his feet, moving behind me. He presses the phaser into the back of my head, his hand shaking, and I gasp, squeezing my eyes tighter.

Pike sighs. "It's just a whore, Spock. We can get you another one."

A sob escapes my lips before I can stop it. I don't want to die. I don't want Spock to kill me. I don't want to be another warning to the citizens of the Empire. You better behave. Or they'll string you up there one day.

I've heard them say that when you face death, your whole life flashes before your eyes. Not mine. I don't want to remember my life. The only thing that flashes in my eyes is blinding whiteness.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The phaser fires.


	30. The Pale Flag of Death Advances

Admiral Barnett falls to the ground. A lifeless heap.

I jump, alarmed. My shoulders scream in agony and a pained screech escapes my lips.

Pike yells. Steps forward, hand moving to his own phaser.

Once more, Spock fires; the blast shoots across the room, a glowing ray of red energy. And once more, the body of a man before me collapses into a heap.

I pant, breaths rushing past my lips. My heart still pounds in my ears, echoing, rushing. My eyes are drawn to them, staring at the dead bodies. Dead. They're dead. Commander Spock killed them.

Why?

He has just placed himself in grave danger. He is now the fugitive he feared becoming. Why? Why would he do that?

Those men, his superiors. They're dead.

Commander Spock moves to stand in front of me, blocking my view. His eyes are wide. Alight with…fear? His mouth open and heavy puffs of air escape, brushing across my face.

"Spock?" His name so quiet on my lips. Too alarmed, too stunned to process what's going on. What **is** going on?

He says nothing—a brief shake of his head—and, clasping the back of my neck, brings my lips to his in another kiss. When he steps back, he raises the phaser.

I bristle, squeezing my eyes closed. No. He's going to— After?— No. I can't escape.

He fires the weapon.

My arms fall to my sides, no longer suspended above my head, and I cry out. My shoulders ache: I've been chained for so long. God, days? Weeks? I don't know. I can't tell you. But the agony of my arms, freed, burns, radiates throughout my body. Spock catches me before I tumble to the floor. Resting us on the floor, he works to untangle my hands from the shackles. He tries to be gentle, I know; his movements are slow, precise. But I cannot control my pained reactions. I wince and hiss as my wrists are aggravated by the motions. Once free, I turn my bloodied and bruised wrists over, looking at them. Gouges. Gashes where the metal bands bit into me, where my wrists hung, weighed down by my weakened body. Blood rivulets run upward from them, caking my arms. My wrists don't feel broken, for which I am thankful.

Spock takes my wrists in his hands and turns them around himself, inspecting my injuries. I stare at his hands, his wrists, his arms. The officer bands on his uniform have changed. No longer the two broad golden bands, they now consist of a thin band and one thicker band. So he told me the truth. He'd been demoted. He is no longer a full Commander. He is no longer the officer in charge of this facility. A small price to pay for what he did to me. For the betrayal he bestowed upon me.

Not everyone is strong enough to defy the Empire? Since when have I tried to defy the Empire? It was never about defiance. It was about living. Wasn't it? It was about fighting for a chance to live the way **I** want to live, not the way some faceless government—Imperial—entity decides I should because I'm a woman. I just wanted to live my life.

He killed them. He killed them instead of me. Can I trust him now? How can I? I don't know what he's doing. I don't know what is going through his mind when he struck down his superiors instead of me.

He told me he would keep me safe, he would help me.

I can't trust him.

I won't fall for it again.

He looks at me and our eyes meet. A yearning. A prayer. That's what I see in his eyes.

But…I don't know if I wouldn't do the same thing if I was in his place. Would I have? Would I have turned in a person I knew to be a fugitive to escape the horrors of the torment I've endured for…however long? The agonizer and the booth are harrowing enough, are horrific enough. You can't escape the pain, it never becomes a dull sensation you can push into the back of your brain. They weren't designed that way. And you can't fall unconscious, you can't escape. It can break you. And a Vulcan has his breaking point? That's what he said. Meditation doesn't work—I know; I tried it—it doesn't numb you. You can't concentrate long enough to do it.

How long did it take for him to break down and submit to Pike's orders? An hour? Thirty minutes? It certainly wasn't very long, because he was in his quarters when I returned from the Emperor's room.

I've been forced to endure this for days. And he caved within hours.

Weak?

"Can you stand?" Spock whispers. His voice pierces the deathly silence.

"I can try."

He grasps me by the elbows and helps me, rising to his feet with me. It's difficult and I wobble on legs too unstable, too weak. I only manage to stand up because he catches me. Keeping an arm around me, around my waist, Spock skirts his free hand across my body, looking for more injuries. They are numerous. His brows furrow, his face full of concentration, of…anguish, with each new injury he finds. My face holds various cuts, mostly shallow. My back is a maze of crisscrossing lash marks, gashes. It burns. It screams in agony, but this is not the time. Blood trails trace down my back and down my legs, from where the men—

The whip's lashes still echo in my mind, still sting across my back. I close my eyes. When I open them, Spock is looking there, his blank face faltering.

I find myself whispering to him, trying to comfort him, struck with a desire to steer his guilt away. "It's not your fault."

He shakes his head. "Yes. It is."

I don't say anything in response. Because, maybe, he's right. And maybe there isn't any 'maybe' to it. He's the one who turned me in. He is at fault here.

My eyes close for a brief moment. I feel weak. Tired.

"We are pressed for time. It will not be long before officials become aware of the situation. I do not have time to properly treat your injuries."

"What's going on, Spock? Why didn't you kill me?" It certainly would have made his life easier. He could return to how things were before he stumbled into me in that classroom.

He says nothing, stepping back from me. Maybe he doesn't even know. Maybe he's going on instinct. Driven by the instinctual need to—What? The need to protect me? To clear his conscience? To try to make a wrong a right? To gain my forgiveness?

He reaches up and removes his blue jacket, tossing the golden sash somewhere in the room and leaving himself dressed in only the black undershirt. My eyes widen but I say nothing when he drapes it across my narrow shoulders. I grasp the material in my shaking hands, pulling it around my body. I've been strewn up, naked, for so long. Clothing, even his, is a welcome gift. To be able to hide my body from view. A luxury, such a common behavior, it's so easy to take it for granted. To ignore the enormity of the move.

He moves across the room and kneels in front of the bodies. He checks for heartbeats, placing two fingers on each of the men's necks, searching for a pulse.

"Spock?" I waver on my feet. I've been so consumed by the pain, by the fear…I haven't eaten in days? "How long?"

He looks at me. "How long for what?"

"How long have I been here?" I lean against the tray holding those instruments, weapons.

His eyes close for a brief second. "Two days, five hours and fifteen minutes."

I nod my head. Okay. I must look horrible. Blood caked onto my face, my body. My hair encrusted. I want a shower. I want to sleep.

"They are dead. We do not have much time. I do not know how long it will take the soldiers to know what is occurring." He crosses the room, returning to my side. He takes my hand in his. "We must leave now if we are to have any chance."

"Any chance?"

But he does not say anything, pulling me forward and heading for the door. It slides open on our approach. He tightens his grip on the phaser and steps out. I trail after him, holding onto his hand like a lifesaver. And it probably is. I'm too weak to do this on my own.

He rounds the corner, raises the phaser, and fires twice.

The man who had attempted to rape me, the man who had taken great pleasure in my pain for hours, crumples to the floor, dead.

I gasp in shock, in horror. "Spock!"

He spins around and brings a finger to my lips. "Shh. We must be quiet and we must be quick. If we are not, we will not be able to escape."

My eyes widen. "Escape? But…Spock, you just killed him! Them! Admiral Barnett. Pike!" I seize the thin material of his undershirt in an attempt to get him to look at me. "They'll arrest you!"

"It is of no concern." He pulls away from me, grabbing my hand once again. Quickly and quietly, he maneuvers us through the winding halls of the building. His eyes constantly dart from side to side, scanning the area for anyone.

.

.

"Where are we going?" The words tumble in a quiet whisper from my lips.

He halts and I bump into him. He turns to look at me. "I am uncertain." He moves forward, grasping my hand in his. "I must find a secure location to house you. When a proper moment arrives, I must forge the necessary documents. You must cease being Nyota Uhura and become someone else." —Just like my life for the four years.—"I must insure that you become my Courtesan. It is the only way."

I halt. Not again. Not that dreaded word. Courtesan. I was the Admiral—Admiral Fredricks' Courtesan, his whore for so long. I was tied to a bed—he called it mine; I never wanted it—and he fucked me over and over for years. Because that's what a Courtesan is for. "No! I won't let you own me. I won't become your property. You promised me."

The Commander looks at me. His face is a mask of indifference. "You will not be able to be free. You will be a wanted fugitive." He closes his eyes. "I apologize, Nyota. But, given the circumstances, I can see no alternative. I cannot allow you to risk—"

I shake my head. "No. I'm willing to take that risk." I don't want to belong to you. Can't you understand that? Is that so hard to grasp?

He stares at me. Ten seconds go by. Then thirty. Thirty-one...thirty-two...I count them in my head. Then, thirty-five seconds, and he turns around. Begins walking again, to some unknown destination. "You are being illogical. The risks would far outweigh the gains. Therefore, the logical solution would be to submit to my proposition."

I stare at his retreating back. My legs wobble, shake. Exhaustion? Fear? I can't tell you. But he's walking away from me, like it's perfectly acceptable to tell a person that you're going to enslave her as your whore and change her name so no one else can have her. Like this is normal—that's because it is—and I can't say anything against it. Once I belong to him, would his behavior towards me change? Would the kindness he began to show me whittle away until all that's left is the Vulcan who threw me on his desk, who tore at my robe, who threaten to r—would he return, no longer concerned with how I might react, no longer concerned with my emotions, my pain and suffering? Should I risk it? No. No, that's not a risk I'm willing to take. I'd rather be chained and tortured by men I don't know, men I haven't come to know. It's easier to take it all when they're strangers. I step forward, trailing after him, on legs too unsteady and reach out. I grab the phaser he holds loosely at his side.

He spins around to face me, his eyes wide.

I grasp it, my knuckles whiten, and aim it at him. My shoulders scream in protest. "No. Don't you understand? I can't—I **cannot** do that again."

His eyes dart behind before returning to me. "Nyota. I am only trying to protect you. You are being emotional. Illogical. It will not be long before the officers discover the bodies in the interrogation chamber. It will not be long before they realize you are missing."

I shake my head. No. "But you're forgetting something. **You're** the one who killed those men in there. **I** didn't. I **couldn't**. Not when I was chained up like a fucking piece of meat! They'll know it was you. And don't tell me there's not video surveillance on those rooms. You're just as much of a fugitive as I am. So tell me, Commander, how do you plan on getting out of this, your own damn self?"

He remains steady. "Please, lower your weapon."

My head shakes again. I can't listen to him. I can't do what he orders me. "I think not. How can you expect me to let my guard down around you? Last time, you fucked me and then let them take me away."

"You consented—"

"And I trusted you! And you threw me to the fucking wolves to protect yourself. I was so **stupid** to fall for it. They tortured me. They beat me, they whipped me. They r—"

His eyes dart around the corridor, glancing off walls, peering further back. "Nyota, this is not the place."

"No, I think this **is** the place. Because if we don't do this now, when will we? When I'm your whore? When you can do whatever the hell you want to me and get away with it? When you decide you've had enough of me and cast me aside, or, God forbid, hand me over to the Empire? Again?"

The Commander's eyes narrow. His brows furrow. "Nyota, please. We must move forward."

Tears burn my eyes. Spill over. I don't stop them; I let them blur my vision. So, maybe I don't have to see his face. He doesn't understand. He will never understand. I will never understand him. "Why? Why did you do it? I did everything you wanted. I gave you my body to use, to fuck."

He flinches. Such a human reaction. But then, he **is** half-human. It's so easy to forget that. Not that being human is a compliment. Sometimes, I think he's **too** human, too set in the ways of the human-ruled Empire. A Vulcan would protest, declare that the treatment of the Empire's subjects too inhumane, too cruel. Sometimes, I think it's the human half that's dragging him down.

The phaser shakes in my hand. "And you turned me in." I sob now. I can't stop the tears. "You were such a coward. You couldn't stand up to them; you couldn't tell them 'no.' You were going to kill me, weren't you? You didn't plan this. You were going to kill me."

His widened eyes. His constant shifting. No, I'm right. He doesn't know what he's doing. He should have killed me. It'd be easier. And this would be over. He steps toward me and grabs my outstretched hand, still clutching the phaser, and forces it down.

I'm still too weak. I can't fight his movements. I look at our joined hands, where his is wrapped around mine. "Spock?"

He glances behind me. He forces me backwards. He propels me into a small hallway, an offshoot from the main corridor—no, an office; he pushes me into an office. An office so close to the interrogation room; his office?—and presses me against the wall. The door slides close beside us.

Panic sets in. I feel it taking hold of my insides, my stomach clenching. What is he going to do? I open my mouth to scream and he places a hand over it and presses his forehead against mine. I breathe harshly, loudly.

Somewhere, in the near distance, above us, the klaxons go off. The soldiers march. They're near. The end is nearing. How can we get out of here? The bodies have been seen. Our escape from the room has been discovered.

"Nyota, you must do as I ask. If you do not, there will be dire consequences." His breath tickles my cheeks.

"Because you'll hit me? Beat me? Rape me?"

His eyes slam shut.

"Like they all do?" I sag against the wall. So tired. My eyes close. Open. The Commander tightens his grip on my body, presses his body against mine. Keeps me standing. "If you're going to do that, just fucking kill me and be done with it."

"I am sorry."

"Please, just let me go." I sob; it catches in my throat. "Why can't you just let me go?" My eyes close. "Why didn't you just kill me?" Everything would be over if he only pulled that trigger.

Silence. Ten seconds.

"I could not."

My eyes open and I gaze into his.

Outside, near, the yells of the soldiers can still be heard. The klaxons still warble.

"It seems that, despite my best intentions, I am at a loss." He steps away from me.

I release a slow breath.

He paces the small office. Why are we in here? Shouldn't we be escaping?

"I must, once again, apologize, Nyota. I cannot determine a way out." His voice is a whisper, prompted by the soldiers just beyond the door.

"Spock?"

He approaches me again, presses his body against mine. "There is no escape. I have failed once more. I was emotionally compromised. And, in my failing, I have sentenced us both to death."

I know it. We are going to die.

"An escape via shuttle craft is unlikely. Aircraft missiles on the grounds can eliminate the target before the craft is able to break the atmosphere. The transporters are unable to transport a subject far enough away to be clear of the danger. You, Nyota, cannot remain on Earth. You are a wanted fugitive, sentenced to death. There will be a great reward for your recapture. The men of this Empire, as you know, are cruel. They will not help you. And I am, now, your accomplice. There is nowhere safe for us here."

Fresh tears fall from my eyes. And the realization that this could be the last time I see him settles in. We're trapped in here. I won't be able to return home, wherever that is. He won't be able to return to his duty as a Starfleet officer. I sob loudly and nod, jerking my head. I kiss him again and pull back. My hands trembles.

I'm going to die. It's going to happen. I can't stop it. The Commander can't stop it.

He tried.

Spock doesn't speak. He grabs my hand. My eyes drop to our joined hands. I still grasp the phaser in my hands. I press it against his chest. His eyes drop to the weapon then back to mine.

The incoming soldiers' footsteps grow closer still.

"It shall be fine."

He is lying.

We both know it.

Spock closes his eyes and his body goes stiff.

I squeeze my eyes close and turn my head. I pull the trigger.

He gasps and slumps forward, collapsing in my arms. I'm sorry. So sorry.

The whirling murmurs of energy—the sound of the doors sliding open—dissipate around me. I open my eyes. Men—soldiers—stand in front of me. Phaser rifles aimed.

I release the breath I've been holding, the tears I've been fighting. There is nowhere left to run. At last, I will be free. The Commander tried. But it was pointless. Because you can't fight the Empire. Because there is no fighting this. This is the way it should have been.

There's a moment, a split second when everything lines up, when clarity strikes.

These men, these soldiers. The law says they are free men, they control it all. But they really don't, do they? I stand before them, peering into death's door, and I realize. I'm more alive than they've ever been. I'm free. Like the butterfly. I will face my death, as a free woman. I've worked with them, right under their noses for four years. They never knew it.

There's power in that knowledge.

In that split second, I realize, they can take my body, my liberties, my life. But they will never truly own me. They are pathetic. Scared. Clutching their imagined, their law-given power to their chests, they fear the one who usurps it.

Their Emperor is dead because a powerless woman—a common whore—slaughtered him. Because she chose to fight.

And I'm going to die. I can't change that. But I can choose how.

I smile.

I laugh.

I aim.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

There are no heroes here. Just lies shrouded in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AFTERWORD
> 
> And that is the end.
> 
> And this is where I explain some things. Reveal some things.
> 
> I've always viewed this story as a very internal one. Yes, there is a very big event going on, an event that Uhura is unwittingly a part of, but I've never imagined it as her REAL journey. Her journey, in my mind, was finding the strength within herself, to stand up for herself. Did she succeed? Did she fail? Did something miraculous happen just before the end? Did she really kill Spock or just render him unconscious? I'll let you decide that.
> 
> Spock was a very difficult character to write, I'll admit that. I knew where I was trying to go with his story, but when the story is told in such a narrow and biased perspective, it was sometimes difficult to show his journey, which I think is very internal, as well.
> 
> I always knew that Spock would not escape. He would not get off the planet. His very nature, his inability to fight the Empire, to make a decision—until it's too late—controlled him. I always knew that he would either stay behind or he would die. Either way, he wasn't going to go off into the proverbial sunset with Uhura. That had already been decided. He's doomed. A Fallen and Tragic Hero. So, why did he attempt the impossible and try to help her escape, if he knew it was destined for failure? To be honest, he wasn't thinking. I think that is the first moment where Spock acts completely on emotion. I've imagined him loving Uhura for quite some time in this story. And here he was, being forced to execute her, a moment where he was finally forced to choose once and for all. Does he blindly follow orders and pull the trigger or does he not? He doesn't think. He reacts. He shoots the man who'd been a subject of great agony, of great horror in a moment of passion, hatred. And, yes, love.
> 
> But he acts and doesn't think of the consequences. There's no way out. No escape.
> 
> He could have been destined to greatness, I think. But he fell victim to his own fears. Fears he eventually voiced. Without the security of his position within Starfleet, where would he be?
> 
> Some plot points aren't touched on, aren't explained. And they won't be. That's done on purpose. This story was written with such a narrow perspective, a stream of consciousness first person narrative. Uhura doesn't know everything going on. And she never will. She only knows what she's seen and what she's heard. And what she's told. And she wasn't told everything. And then, everything she sees and hears is colored by her own perspective, her own twisted and broken mind. Where she thought Spock was trying to trap her, he was trying to save her. Where she saw prospective salvation in the form of Robau, there was another spider web of entrapment and lies to escape.
> 
> But I wanted this story to be Nyota's. I wanted the reader to feel what she was feeling, to know what she knew. If I were to explain everything, it might take away from that. So I won't. That doesn't mean that iI/i don't know what was going on. I do. But Nyota didn't.
> 
> And the story is probably not perfect. In fact, I know it's NOT perfect. There are some issues with it. Will I go back and address them, fix them? Maybe. But, realistically, probably not any time soon. If ever.


End file.
